


The King's Man

by Selcier



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, M/M, this got out of hand, try to suspend your disbelief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15455895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selcier/pseuds/Selcier
Summary: It's the middle of the night when the attack happens: the night that Harry Hart goes from the posh gentlemen Eggsy’s been seeing to the future King of England. Of course no one’s ever heard of a King dating a bloke from the Estates before. Especially not one who’s more trouble than he’s worth. Afterall, it ain’t that kind of fairytale.





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful futuredescending for the wonderful art, careful beta'ing of my work, and Brit-picking comments!! This fic would certainly be a lot less polished without you. ^.^ Their art is posted within the story in the appropriate section.
> 
> Art at futuredescending's tumblr: https://futuredescending.tumblr.com/post/176480610008/i-also-got-to-do-arts-for-selciers-lovely 
> 
> And thanks to everyone from the Kingsman BigBang team for putting everything together!! I was so happy to participate this year. :)
> 
> This story is slightly non-linear so please pay attention to the chapter titles. There are also some sections that I had to totally make up, as research only gets you so far, so please suspend your disbelief haha. 
> 
> As usual for my fics, please let me know if you see any glaring errors or want to offer constructive comments. I could have stared at this fic for a century making little tweaks here and there. I'm happy to just get it published. 
> 
> tumbr: https://eggselcier.tumblr.com/

Eggsy wakes to a clatter. He sits up, immediately reaching for the lamp next to his bed and grasping at air when his hand doesn’t close around the pull string. It's dark in the room, the sun just beginning to creep over the tops of the houses.

He falls back onto the pile of pillows with a huff and a happy sigh, remembering the night before. Dim shadows play out over the ceiling as the tree in the back garden sways in the breeze. The light chirping of birds filters in through the window along with the distant sound of the street. It's a routine he’s become accustomed to: waking up in the soft sheets of his and Harry’s bed.

He squints at his phone and laughs to himself. Four missed calls from Roxy early this morning. Must have been some bender she was on last night. She only ever calls when she’s five drinks deep.

Another bump from downstairs has him rolling out of bed and pulling on his pants from yesterday. He tugs on the tight fabric, shifting his dick to be more comfortable in the elasticized waistband. One of Harry’s button-downs from the floor makes a good enough shirt. He holds the fabric up to his nose before putting it on to luxuriate in the deep musk of Harry’s soap.

He takes the steps two at a time even though his muscles groan and protest. He stops short at the bottom as he peers around the corner into the front room.

“Harry,” he says, quiet. The telly is glowing in the living room, muted, Harry standing before it with his mobile in his hand and a spilled glass of orange juice at his feet. The liquid has already seeped into the carpet staining the area.

“Harry?” he tries again. He steps into the room and a chill runs up his spine. He fidgets; rubbing his hands over the shirt. It's odd for Harry to be so distant in the morning.

Harry’s face jerks up from the telly to meet his, his eyes wide and cheeks pale. “Eggsy,” he says. His voice croaks.

Eggsy nods, his eyebrows furrowed. “You alright there, guv’?”

Harry opens his mouth, but his eyes dart towards the television again. A loud voice, tinny with the volume, emerges from Harry’s phone. “Harry, you daft wanker. I’ll be there in ten. I expect you to have sobered up by the time I arrive.”

The insult seems to snap Harry out of his stupor. He fumbles with the phone, almost dropping it, before muttering, “Yes, Merlin, well… you might want to come in through the back. I’ll unlock the garden gate for you.” The screen goes dark. Merlin must have hung up.

“You drunk?” Eggsy asks, shifting on his feet, face tipping back between the muted television and Harry’s profile. “Bit early for it, innit?” He takes another hesitant step into the room, peering around Harry’s shoulders to the screen.

 _...dozens of countries. Only time will tell how this may affect world financial markets. Of course, the emotional toll can only be recognized as catastrophic_ , says the closed captions in stale black and white type.

The screen switches away from the reporter’s pale face to a series of scenes of destruction and mourning. The caption at the bottom marks the location as Manhattan. The cameras pull away from the close up of twisted debris to focus on the burning faces of nearby skyscrapers.

“Midtown,” Harry says. His voice stutters.

Eggsy frowns, confusion pursing his eyebrows together. Harry’s profiled face looks sickly in the glow. “Ain’t that in America?”

Harry turns to face him so fast that Eggsy has to take a step back and the backs of his calves bump against the hard edge of the coffee table.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, raising one hand. “You don’t look good, bruv. Maybe you should sit down. I’ll get you some more orange juice, yeah?”

The taller man seems to deflate at the words; his shoulders drooping forward and his chin flopping down to rest on his chest. The strain in his face crumbles for the barest instant before his lips pinch. But he nods and heads to the dining room.

Eggsy hurries past to pull out a chair for him, his usual one at the head of the table, before he leaves Harry with one last look to find something for him to drink. The glass of juice lands on the table with a dull thud once Eggsy sets it down, but Harry makes no move to reach for it.

“Eggsy, could you please unlock the back gate. Merlin will be arriving shortly.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, not bothering to hide his confusion. “Sure thing, Haz.” He leaves Harry to stare at the table.

He figures the garden walls are high enough that he can wade through the waist high foliage and no one will be able to see that he’s only in a tight pair of neon pants. But Merlin’s already standing on the other side of the gate when he arrives, and Eggsy blushes when the man raises an eyebrow at his state of undress.

“Just get in,” he says. “Harry’s in a right state.”

Merlin follows him back into the house with barely a polite smile. “I would think so,” he says. He wipes his shoes on the mat at the back door but doesn’t wait for permission to stride in through the kitchen and into the dining room with a flourish of his briefcase.

“Har- Mr. Hart,” he says. And then he scowls. “Your Maj-”

Harry raises a hand, looking up from his full glass for the first time. “Please, not yet.”

Merlin’s face softens but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he pulls out the chair on Harry’s left and sits.

Eggsy glares at them both and turns to the kitchen to find more juice. They start up a quiet conversation while he’s insolently digging in the cupboards for two more glasses. He pours the juice into both, one being significantly more full than the other, before stomping back into the dining room and slamming the half-empty glass onto the table in front of Merlin.“Just which one of you is going to tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

Harry winces, a movement that atrophies the heat in Eggsy’s veins. He pulls back from his aggressive position leaning over the table between them to circle around to the spot on Harry’s right. He sits down, his fingers fidgeting over the delicate design etched into the glass. “I mean,” he says, “what’s going on?”

Merlin, never one for mincing words, stares at him with brutal attention from across the table. “The majority of the Royal family is dead, Mr. Unwin. Killed last night while attending a reception for their new American relatives. It was one of multiple attacks occurring in synchrony, leaving many countries without their heads of state. Reports started coming in late last night but,” he looks over at Harry for a moment and then back to Eggsy. His eyes lower to a spot on the table right over Eggsy’s lap, “But I suppose you weren’t in a state to be watching the BBC.”

Eggsy swallows, his throat dry. He makes to pick up his juice, but Harry’s face is still pale, so he says: “You knew some of them, yeah?”

Harry nods, but clears his throat. His lips move, his words a quiet whisper, before he shakes his head and sets his jaw. “Yes, I.... Yes, I did.”

Eggsy glances at Merlin for a moment but figures he’s already sitting there at the dining room table in Harry’s shirt. So he holds Harry’s elbow in a light grip and curls his thumb over the sharp jut of bone. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he says. “They was all good people, them.”

Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he nods. “Thank you, Eggsy,” he says like Eggsy’s words really meant something.

Merlin clears his throat. “There’s more, Mr. Unwin, if you don’t mind.”

Harry looks over at Eggsy’s face and attempts a small smile. “I’m sorry about this, darling, “ he says.

Eggsy’s face deepens into a frown. “About what?”

“It seems, as this was a particularly important event for the Royal Family, that many of the Queen’s closest family members were in attendance. The Queen herself, being thought in too fragile a state to travel overseas, was fortunately not present for the event. However, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, Prince Henry of Wales, the Duke of York, Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, the Princess Royal and the Earl of Wessex were all in attendance. There hasn't been such an event seen since the  Duchess’ marriage to the Duke,” Merlin says. He pauses there to look over at Harry. “And the children. God bless their souls.”

“That’s everyone,” Eggsy says, his hand curling around his juice glass, and then softer, “Like the whole lot of them.”

Merlin continues on, clearing his throat. “Eggsy. You’ve seen Mr. Hart’s estate. Has he ever told you of his grandparents? About who his mother’s parents were?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No, sir. Just about his mum and-”

Harry interrupts them. “Merlin. The paperwork, please. Before this gets out of hand.”

Merlin continues to look at Eggsy with a hard cut to his eyes, but he pulls up his briefcase to the table-top. “Of course, Harry.” He snaps open the lid, blocking his stare from view, and pulls out a ribbed folder that’s held shut by a blue ribbon. “You’ll find they’re all in order. I’ve double checked my sources multiple times.”

He shuts the briefcase with a sharp click and transfers his scowl to Harry as the man leafs through the contents of the envelope with darting eyes.

Eggsy manages to take a sip of his orange juice and looks over towards the glow of the television from the dark living room, still unbelieving. “Fuck,” he mutters into his glass. “Fuck.”

A knock echos through the house, and Harry and Eggsy both jump in their chairs. Harry stops reading, his hands full of disheveled papers with scrawling insignia and flourishes of red wax seals. “Shit,” Harry says.

Merlin stands. He holds out his hand for the folder. For a moment, it looks as though Harry might rip the papers in half by the way his fists tighten and his jaw sets in determination. “The papers, Harry,” Merlin says, his voice gentle but his stance solid. “It’s not just me looking into this. Every historian will be on the news within the hour to announce it.”

“I know,” Harry says. He looks down at the papers, placing them back in a pile and then smoothing the edges where he’d creased them. “I know. Just give me...an hour. Two. Whatever you can manage.” He closes the folder and ties the ribbon again in a smart bow. “Two hours. Please.”

Merlin takes the folder from him. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll have to hand everything over to the Crown. You know that. I doubt they’ll be interested in your personal feelings on the subject.”

Harry smiles, but it's grim. “Of course,” he says, and Eggsy can see that he’s hiding behind his manners.

Merlin’s jaw tightens. “Good morning,” he says by way of a goodbye, and spins on one heel to let himself out through the kitchen.

A knock on the front door sounds again but Harry doesn’t make any move to get up to answer it. Eggsy hears voices shouting from beyond the house’s thick walls. He’s suddenly thankful for Harry’s fussy curtains in the front rooms.

Eggsy swallows; the noise painfully loud even over the din from outside.

Harry takes in a shuddering breath next to him. “Eggsy,” he says. His pale hands tighten into fists on the white table cloth. “I haven’t been completely forthcoming with my current familial relationships.”

Eggsy ducks in his chair, staring down at his pale thighs. “Yeah?” he says, trying to give his heart something to latch onto. His rough voice sounds like the crunch of tires on the gravel outside of Harry’s big estate house.

Neither of them look at each other, and Eggsy knows it’s over.

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyes. His teeth ache under the clench of his jaw. Fuck, he doesn’t want to even hear the rest.

His fingers tighten around the edges of his pants.

“Yes, well. My mother, she was the first daughter of Princess Margaret and…” he trails off there as a few more knocks echo from the front door. A car horn blares from outside.

“Fuck,” Eggsy says, voice hushed to a whisper as Harry continues. Something about nothing and all Eggsy can hear is Harry’s soft apology of, _I’m sorry about all this, darling_.

Eggsy surges to his feet. “I should go,” he says, his tongue twisting up with the force of his words. “Harry. I should go.” He reaches up with the heel of his hand to push at his eyes. “Fuck.”

Harry stands, his hands slipping on the tablecloth and pulling it askew as he reaches out for Eggsy’s shoulder. “Wait, please. Eggsy. Let me explain. I-”

Eggsy jerks back, Harry’s fingers like a hot brand through the thin fabric of his button-up. “Shit, Harry.” He wipes at the tears on his face. He feels something like the ghost of one of Dean’s smacks ringing through his head. “You can’t be fucking a poof when you’re-” He can’t bear to say it. “You can’t be with some chav with a fucking record. Dishonorably discharged, Harry. Nicking cars. Dealing.”

He takes a stuttering step back, banging up against the fussy china cabinet and sending a blunt burn of pain through his hip. He winces, but at least the tears are gone with the familiar ache. He can’t look at Harry.

“I’ll go out through the garden. They won’t see me. Call Merlin when I’m gone.”

The living room is too dark despite the blue glow from the television and he stubs his toe on the end of the club chair. He curses, thinking about Harry in that chair the previous night with his shirt unbuttoned and his hand sliding up Eggsy’s thigh. _Eggsy_ , he had whispered with reverence, _My dear, look at you._

He fumbles for the handrail to the stairs and stumbles over the last few right before he reaches the landing. The first floor is brighter: the curtains framing the window at the end of the hallway spread open to let in the morning sun. He cringes in the sudden light, stooping over as he picks his way down the hall on numb feet.

His polo and jeans are in a rumpled heap at the foot of Harry’s bed. He pulls on his trousers, fumbling with the zip and the button. But he can’t get his fingers to stop shaking enough to unbutton Harry’s shirt, so he pulls his polo over it and doesn’t care that he looks a right state.

His shoes are back down in the entry; both the ones that he wore yesterday and the other two pairs he’d left for when they went out in the garden or for when Harry felt like something a little more posh was on the agenda for the night. How presumptuous he’d been. What a complete fucking idiot.

Eggsy glances around their bedroom - Harry’s bedroom: His lightest jacket is thrown over the reading chair. There’s a snapback squashed underneath one of the pillows from when Harry had pushed it off just before his mouth slid up the inside of Eggsy’s knee. Two t-shirts hang out of the side of the laundry bin next to the open closet.

Harry’s mobile rings from below and Eggsy stumbles back down the stairs. His bare feet stick to the wooden stairs.

He’s got one trainer on when Harry blocks the light from the kitchen windows. The sounds from outside the door are more clear now that Eggsy has his back up against it. His hands wander up to grip his medal through the layers of fabric across his chest. He can feel the outline of it as if it were burning a pattern into his palm.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, his phone in his hand with the screen still on and Merlin’s name bright and bold in the center; the call still connected. “You don’t need to leave. Just- just stay here until everything’s settled.”

He takes a step closer but Eggsy shrinks up against the door from his place on the floor. “Don’t, Harry,” Eggsy says, and his voice warbles but the words are firm enough. They watch each other for a moment in silence while Eggsy stays on the floor and sets his jaw in a firm line. He tugs at his shoe string, tightening his trainers until the old laces might snap. “Just don’t”

Harry’s normal polite expression falls for a moment and he steps back. “Of course,” he says. One of his hands grips the edge of the living room door frame. “Of course.” He pushes his other hand through his loose hair, his face smoothing back into that blank civility, and climbs the steps up to the bedroom in a measured pace until he disappears. Eggsy catches the tail of the conversation with Merlin “...send a car to the back. I’ll meet you out there.”

He returns only minutes later, but Eggsy’s back is still pulled stiff. He keeps his gaze on the floor and the shining gleam of Harry’s oxfords. “I’ll wait, Harry,” he says. His voice is even and he’s proud of himself. “Go outside, yeah? I’ll leave later.”

Harry pauses for only a moment as his body sways on the edge of propriety. “I’ll sort this out, Eggsy. I won’t… There has to be-”

Eggsy flinches at the words and his eyes squeeze shut. “Just go.”

And Harry does. The kitchen door closes behind him with a bang as the simple wooden screen smacks against the frame.

Eggsy drops his head; his body slumping forward so far that he falls onto the floor and his cheek smacks into the tile of the tiny foyer floor. It’s cool against his face and curbs the growing rise of nausea filling his gut. He breathes in, gulping down mouthfuls of air and gasping over the rush of blood in his ears. He stares down, wide-eyed, at the flecks of color in the tile while his vision turns blurry as tears gather in his eyes and slip down his face.

“Shit,” he rasps into the floor. “Shit.”


	2. Then, part I

“Foxes are vermin, cuz. Should've driven it over.” Jamal says from the back seat. The bright headlights of the copper’s car bleach out his face with their intensity. 

Eggsy sneers. “Should've done a lot of things,” he says more to himself than anyone else. He grips the steering wheel harder, determined. “I'll sort this. Get out of the car.” 

Nobody moves so he yells again. “I said, get out of the fucking car!”

Later,  he calls the number on the back of the medal because it's that or he’s locked up. Like the copper said, he’s got too many priors and not enough sense to fix his life. Calling doesn’t seem like much of a choice. 

Despite the warm and wet April weather outside, the tiny bare room he’s been kept in is chilly and dry. The medal, warm from its place against his chest, leaves imprints in his palm as he squeezes his fist around it. The line on the other side of the connection rings. 

“C’mon, please,” he whispers to himself in a mantra. 

The line clicks on and a low voice answers. “This is Merlin.”

“Hello,” he says to the man on the other end, his voice stuttering in his sad attempt to be polite. “My name’s Eggsy - Gary - Unwin. A bloke gave this medal to my mum, and well, I’m up shit creek - been picked up for stealing a car - and he said if I needed a favor I should go and call. And well, that’s what I’m doing. Calling.”

The man cuts Eggsy off. “Gary Unwin?” Eggsy hears the sound of tapping faintly in the background as Merlin types away at a keyboard. “Son of Lee Unwin?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, hope coloring his voice as he sits up straight, leaning over the reflective metal of the table. “My da’, yeah.”

“I do see here Mr. Hart extended an invitation for you.” He hummed. “I’ll send a car around. Which station are you at?”

“Holborn,” he says and just as quickly continues so the man won’t hang up, “But they’re questioning me now - I don’t think they’re going to let me just walk out.” He pauses a moment, “Sir.”

“I’ll take care of that,” the man says. And then, after a moment of hesitation, he adds “And I’ll let Mr. Hart know you called.”

Eggsy manages a weak grin into the receiver despite his latent fear. His heart hammers in his chest even as cold exhilaration washes down his spine. The plastic casing of the cordless phone creaks under the strain of his grip. “Shit, thanks.”

“It's my job,” says the man in a gruff huff of air before the line goes dead.

When Eggsy steps out into the blinding sunlight only an hour later, his heart has slowed but it still aches with the lingering pulse of his good luck. He closes his eyes, loitering on the grey concrete steps in front of the building, head tilting back towards the sky and the light spring sun. 

“Hello, Eggsy,” says a man to his right. He’s tall, dressed in the type of suit Eggsy has only ever seen on a screen, and has a brolly draped over one of his elbows. He thinks for a horrible moment that this man will be the one to tell him that it's all a mistake and ‘could he kindly place his hands on the hood of the car?’

Eggsy sneers; tilting his chin up to peer down his nose at the man, “Who’re you?”

“I’m the man who had you released,” he says, pushing himself off the wall.

“It weren’t you I talked to on the phone.”

“My name is Harry Hart,” he says, smiling, “I’m the one who gave you that medal. Your father saved my life.”

They wind up walking to somebody’s local, though it sure as hell isn’t Eggsy’s kind of place and he doubts it’s Hart’s spot either. There’s no chance of him being able to show his face in The Black Prince for a few weeks lest Rottie sees him, but this place has a few tables scattered about a wooden floor with footie banners gathering dust in the corners, so it's good enough. Hart stops at the bar to order a Guinness for him and something pale for Eggsy before they settle down across from each other in a cozy booth.

“Ta,” Eggsy mumbles more to the drink than the other man.

“It was my pleasure,” Hart says, and his smile agrees. 

They sip at their drinks, Eggsy scratching at the grain of the smooth table. The tinny sound of some old song plays over the radio behind the counter covering their continued silence. For the first time in a while, Eggsy can’t fall back on his usual mannerisms. He doesn't know how to act with such a fit stranger in a nice suit sitting across from him. He forces himself to sit up straighter.  “You said you knew my dad?” 

“Yes, quite well, actually,” Hart says, leaning back with the hint of a slouch in his seat. “We served together in the Royal Army Medical Corp. He was under my command when he died.”

Eggsy shifts. “My mum said all they’d tell her was that he was killed in action. Nothing about what he did or what happened or nothing.” He shrugged, trying to let the affront roll off his shoulders. 

“It was my fault, I’m afraid,” Hart says, turning his half-drunk pint around in a circle on the table. Condensation drips down the sides and puddles on the wood. “I missed something that day. Something that could have killed me and every man in the operation. But your father caught it. And he gave his life to save all of ours.” He looks sharply up at Eggsy, “I don’t think I could ever repay him for what he did.”

Swallowing, Eggsy licks his lips and looks down again at his full pint. “Well, you got me out today. So, yeah. Thanks for that, you know.”

Harts smiles again, his face brightening with the small gesture. “You’re welcome, Eggsy.”

Hart downs a few more mouthfuls of his beer, finishing it off before leaving it on the table. “We’ve met before, you know,” he says. “I came to your house, a few months after your father died, once I was back in England after my tour. To meet you and your mother. I wanted to offer my thanks and condolences in person.”

Eggsy reaches up to adjust his snapback. “Yeah, I remember sort of. My mum wasn’t too happy. Yelled at you to get out.” She’d been crying, he remembers. It's one of the earliest things he can picture; her blotchy red face and trembling lips. She’d gathered him up to her chest afterwards and squeezed him so tight he pushed at her shoulders to let off. 

“She did,” Hart says, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. “But I left the medal with you nonetheless. I’m happy I was able to help when the time came.” He purses his lips together briefly. “But I can’t say I’m happy about the situation surrounding your call. I was expecting something more along the lines of a recommendation letter or funding for your gap year. Not that you were arrested joy riding in a stolen car.”

Eggsy leans forward, his face flaring hot with anger and a flush spreading down the back of his neck. “You can’t come in here judging me. You don’t got any idea about who I am or what I done.” He waves a hand through the air in a sharp motion. “Think you can come down to us common folk from your ivory tower and bang on about making good decisions. Not all of us were born with silver spoons up our arses. Some of us got to work for what we got.”

Hart doesn’t give and inch. “My solicitor tells me you had a brief stint with the Royal Engineers before your discharge. And you barely scraped out of secondary.”

Eggsy makes to stand and looms over Hart in a challenge. “I don’t have to sit around and listen to you judge my life. I don’t got to explain myself to you.” He takes a hearty gulp of his pint and slams it back on the table so hard that some of the golden liquid splashes up over the rim and splatters against his hand. “Who the fuck told you all that anyways? Christ. Thanks for the favor and all, but I’ve got to get back to lazing around my shit flat looking for government handouts, if you get me.” 

Hart stands too, his hands up. “Eggsy,” he says, voice soft enough that Eggsy pauses, “I apologize. That was rude of me to bring up. Please sit back down.”

Eggsy stares at the man, his face twisted in a sneer before he sighs. “Fine,” he says as he collapses back into his seat. “Since you asked nicely.” He folds his arms over his chest. 

“Yes, well thank you,” Hart says, another tentative smile looking placating on his face. 

Eggsy looks away, heat coloring his cheeks. He’d always been too much of a romantic for his own good. Hart’s blundering arsehole ways remind him of the handsome Henry Higgins. “Christ,” he murmurs to himself.

As if they’ve just met again, they sit looking at each other in silence as Eggsy finishes his pint. “My mum,” he says as he sets down the glass, opening his mouth before he knows his next words. “She called when I was just finishing up training. Said she couldn’t bear me going off and getting killed just like my da’.”

Hart flinches. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Eggsy. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “Nah, it's alright. Never told anyone. My mates think I got scared out. They don’t bring it up. Don’t want to embarrass me I suppose. They’re good, them,” he adds. “I think my mum regrets it sometimes. Like when we got to get an extension on rent or when Daisy needs a new onesie ‘cause she’s grown too much. But I’m not going to blame her either. And it's not my fault either.” He shrugs. “No one to blame - it just is.”

Hart looks like he wants to ask a question; his lips open and one of his eyebrows raises; but instead he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “I’m honored you would consider me such a confidant.”

“‘s better to tell someone, I guess. And you’re the only bloke who’s asked so far.”

“Ah, I see.”

Eggsy doubts that Hart does really see anything. He doubts he’s ever had to choose between his family and a job. For a moment, Eggsy wishes he could hate the man. His manner and his handsome suit and his polite interest. He wonders what would happen if he leaned over the table and sloshed a drink down his pristine white shirt. Would Harry Hart lose his composure then?

“I’ve got to be going,” he says instead. “Mum will expect me home soon since I never went back last night. Don’t want to worry her, yeah?”

He stands and Hart copies him. “Well, yes. You, ah, have my number if you need anything,” Hart says, holding out his hand.

They shake briefly even though it feels like a charade to Eggsy. Like they just made a deal even though they’d barely been civil with each other. Their hands are opposite too; Eggsy’s rough with calluses and Hart’s soft and silky like he puts on lotion every night. “Thought that was only a one-time thing?”

Hart pushes up his glasses on his nose even though they’re already straight. “I suppose you’re right. That number does go directly to Merlin after all.” He reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls out a crisp white card. “Perhaps this number might be more appropriate if you need to contact me.”

The paper under Eggsy’s fingers is thick and creamy; the words “Harry Hart” stamped across the top in formal black letters. He glides his thumb along the edge and jerks it away when the shallowest of paper cuts opens his finger in a bloodless slit. 

“Sure,” Eggsy says, cramming the card into his back pocket and ignoring the sharp burst of pain. “Next time, then.”

“Goodbye, Eggsy,” Hart says. They part ways at the table and Eggsy doesn’t look back. No use in thinking about something that can never happen.

 

****

 

No matter how much he tells himself that Hart’s words meant nothing, Eggsy starts poking his nose into the possibility of a job. He can’t say he likes fucking about in his room just waiting for Dean to come home and wail on him. And he can’t say he even likes playing Xbox late enough into the night that his eyes hurt when he closes them. 

So one morning a few weeks later over breakfast - cereal and watery orange juice - he mentions the possibility to his mum in a low voice. She ignores him for a moment, trying to sop up milk from around Daisy’s wobbling chin, before setting down the tissue. Only the sounds of the neighbors talking and the nearby traffic fill the room as Dean hadn’t come back the night before and the constant roar of the telly had been switched off in his absence. 

“What kind of thing you looking for?” she asks. 

Eggsy glances around at the piles of dishes on the counter and the cigarette butts overflowing their dish on the table. He shrugs. “Anything, I guess. Maybe a little something to help with Daisy’s schooling.”

She hums, turning back to Daisy and the tiny girl’s cereal. “Maybe try down at the offy. Aunty Parker’s always looking for someone who can be on time. You’re good at that, luv.”

He wonders if she means to say he isn’t good at much else. But he nods anyways. “Sure. Cheers, mum.”

His mum isn’t working that day so he doesn’t have an excuse to watch Daisy as she crawls around the living room floor on her stomach. So he kisses her soft head and wanders out and down around the corner past dreary concrete flats to Ms. Parker’s stamp of a pound shop. 

She shakes her head when he asks if she needs any help. “‘Fraid not, Mr. Unwin. My Benny’s been helping me with the boxes since I broke my finger.” She holds up a large, meaty hand wrapped in gauze and a splint. The fat on her arms jiggles with the movement. But she smiles at him from the other side of the scratched counter, framed with stacks of penny candy and lottery advertisements. “Maybe you might try over with Old Thomas at the shop.”

After a deafening drop-in at the machine shop, Eggsy stops by the chemist and then the bank and then the mobile dealer. The sun’s high enough in the sky by that time that he can feel beads of sweat gathering in the collar of his polo and he decides he’s done. 

It’s lucky though that he’s close enough to the flat that he doesn’t take the bus home since he walks by the cleaners and spots the hand written note in the window. Cashier wanted.

It's a nice enough place: clean and a bit shabby, with people who come in who look and act more like Eggsy than that Harry Hart. He works the front desk at the cleaners most days but sometimes Ms. Suzzie sends him nextdoor to the attached laundrette to help some old lady fish a missing sock out of the catch. He picks up as many hours as he can.

Dean harrasses him about the job for weeks. Claims Eggsy won’t be able to handle it. That he’ll steal from the till. Eggsy ignores him until he can’t take it any more and shoots back, “Nah, Dean, that’s what would happen if you worked there.”

Dean smacks his head off the kitchen counter for the comment and it starts Daisy up and screaming. 

Ms. Suzzie, his new manager, shakes her head when she sees the bruise the next day in the morning but hands him the mop anyways. “As long as you don’t bring that trouble in here, young man,” she says.

Eggsy keeps his eyes on the floor. “No ma’am.” 

He keeps Dean in the dark about his comings and goings as much as he can after that. He hurries out of the house way before Dean’s even thought about getting up and he’s back in his room once he knows Dean’s at the pub with his dogs. And if he has to work a late shift, he loiters around the streets nearby until it's late enough that Dean’ll have passed out. 

Some nights while manning the counter, when the customers have dwindled to a pair of teenagers spending more time looking at their phones instead of each other or Bent Mr. Hodgkins from the Council flat next door, Eggsy’s mind strays towards thinking about Harry Hart and the way his long fingers curled around his Guinness. There hadn’t been a ring on his finger, Eggsy remembers, and his nails had been trimmed short without any hard bits of skin poking out from around them like how Eggsy’s hands look. Had the pads of his fingers been as soft as his palms when they shook? Eggsy can’t remember that part and he wishes he could have another chance to find out. 

His imagination travels up Hart’s arm covered in fitted sleeves to the broad set of his shoulders and the peek of skin above his collar. What would he look like with that starched bit of fabric pulled to the side? Would his skin be salty with perspiration or do posh gentlemen even sweat at all? Would he let Eggsy suck a pattern into the delicate skin of his jaw or would he grab at Eggsy’s chin and force him to hold still as he-

Eggsy looks up at the clock and it’s four minutes past closing time. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, pulling out the keys to lock up. Everyone’s already cleared out, leaving him with a silly pile of daydreams. 

That is, until a few weeks later when he sees Hart himself framed in the large front window like a vision from some period drama. Eggsy watches him, his mouth parted in surprise, as Hart fiddles with his jacket and pulls a garment bag from the back seat of a taxi. “Well fuck me.”

He looks the same as Eggsy remembers; all long legs and coiffed hair. Still wearing a suit as well. It hugs the curve of his shoulders and the clinch of his waist. He’s in dark navy this time. It makes him look more casual, somehow, as if he were going to a party. Well, not the type of party Eggsy would ever be at. 

The door jingles merrily as Hart steps in. He looks around, finding his bearings, before focusing his attention over in Eggsy’s direction.

“This ain’t really your neighborhood, bruv,” Eggsy says, leaning over the counter and snapping a piece of gum in the back of his mouth. He grins up at Hart’s surprised expression, finding that the cutting words of their last meeting have dulled in the back of his mind. 

“Eggsy!” Hart says, his eyes widening and he takes a step back. Eggsy stifles a widening smile, a burst of delicious delight suffusing his chest that Hart remembers his name. “Christ, you startled me.”

Eggsy laughs and shuffles some payment slips off to the side. “You ain’t been having me followed, yeah?”

“Of course not,” Harry says, raising a garment bag as if to prove his point. “My normal dry cleaner had a bit of a systems break down and Google Maps informed me this was the closest location.” He frowns and glances out the window at the cracked concrete outside. “But I’m sure there must have been another one closer now that I think about it.”

“Coming from the spot you gotta live in? You probably passed one on every corner.”

Harry shrugs and steps up to the counter, his confused expression settling. “I can’t say I’m unhappy about the circumstances. It is good to see you again, Eggsy.” He glances around at the cleaners, taking in the rows of garment bags and handwritten reminders taped all over the register. “It seems as though you’ve been working diligently since we last spoke.”

Eggsy stands up straighter and rolls his shoulders back. “Yeah, well.” He doesn’t want to say Harry’s rebuttal had hit him like one of Dean’s fists to his stomach, but it had. So he tips his head to the side and changes the subject. “You got something you want cleaned then?”

Harry clears his throat, “Yes, of course. Two suits for cleaning and pressing.” He lays the long black bag on the counter and Eggsy hits a few buttons on the ancient register. A wispy receipt pops out with a few lines of barely legible ink. Harry watches him intently. “Are you only working the till or are you assisting in the back as well?”

“Up front for now,” Eggsy says as he turns to manually type in Harry’s card into the system. A green light flashes, signaling the pending transaction. He focuses in on it, trying to avoid the flush Harry’s smile brings to his face. “Ms. Suzzie owns next door too, the laundrette, and I help out over there if something goes wrong. Normally it's just some berk’s sock stuck in the catcher but someone’s gotta open up the back and fish it out. Not bad, really. I like fixing things.”

Harry smiles at him and tucks his wallet back in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I agree. In fact, it sounds quite agreeable.”

Eggsy snorts and tucks a label around the garment hanger’s hook. “Yeah sure, though it ain’t the word I’d use.”

He hangs up the bag on the rack behind the counter and finds he can no longer resist looking back at Harry’s face. He bites his lip, embarrassed to think about all the daydreaming he’d been doing about the man’s mouth while leaning against this very counter. 

“It's nice to see you, Eggsy,” Harry says after a heartbeat. “You never called after we met for drinks and I… well, I should know to leave well-enough alone at my age.”

Well shit, Eggsy thinks to himself. His face grows hot and he berates himself for acting like some stammering teenager. He puts on a smile, cockier than he really feels. “So, it weren’t just the polite thing to do then? Giving me your number?”

The taller man looks startled and then his face transforms into a quiet confidence; like someone who’s used to getting what he wants. “Perhaps I misjudged the situation.”

“There’s that pub,” Eggsy says, interrupting before Harry can remember just who he’s talking to. “The one we went to after...they had a nice pint. Want to go?” He leans over the counter slightly, his fingers and palms splayed on the old laminate, and clears his throat. 

“Of course,” Harry says standing up straighter. “Why yes, Eggsy. That would be quite lovely.” His face opens up into a smile that looks supremely genuine, adding a dollop of pink warmth to his cheeks and making his countenance light up even when his crow’s feet bunch up at the corners of his eyes. 

Eggsy’s heart skips with a jolt in his chest. “Nine tonight then?” He says more softly than his brash invitation before. “I gotta close up.”

“I’m sure I’m perfectly capable of a late night out,” Harry says. He cocks his head, considering. “Although I suppose a nap this afternoon might be in order.”

“Please, Hart,” Eggsy says grinning as he stands up straight again. “You’re well fit under all that.”

Harry’s face turns rosy with the barest of flushes, a purely ridiculous sight on such a well-dressed man. “Oh. Well thank you. This evening then.”

Eggsy watches Harry’s back as he leaves, the air coming out of him a deep sigh. Well, that's him fucked then. 

 

****

  
They meet at the pub not too long after the sun has completely set. Harry’s already seated when Eggsy arrives; tucked in at the same booth they sat in before with a dark pint of Guinness on the table in front of him. He looks up when Eggsy comes to stand over him, a beautiful smile lighting up his face. He stands, extracting himself from the booth, and says “Eggsy!” with the surprise of someone happily proved wrong. “It's good to see you.” 

It's busier than The Black Prince on a Friday with university students and young business men enjoying the scratchy music and cheap beer. Harry looks out of place with his pressed suit and shined shoes. Eggsy even more so in a bright hoodie and a snapback. Maybe between the two of them they’d make one average Londoner. 

Eggsy grins up at him, tipping his cap up a bit more. “Saw you just this morning, bruv.” 

Harry looks chastened but amused. “Yes. Of course.” 

Eggsy glances towards the empty seat. Is Harry supposed to take his jacket? All he’s got is a hoodie. And they aren’t at some fancy restaurant with waiters and cloth napkins. He wonders if he should offer to get the first round since it had been him to suggest the spot. 

“Shall I get you something? A pale ale like last time?” he says graciously, cutting off Eggsy’s indecision. 

Eggsy shrugs. “Sounds good.” He admires Harry’s back as he approaches the proprietor before sliding into the booth. Maybe they’re both totally out of their element here. 

When Harry returns, they start off slow with conversation. Harry asks about Eggsy’s mother and Eggsy gets to tell him all about Daisy and how big she’s been getting. He comes right out and asks Harry if he wants to talk about his family at all. Harry smiles but says no. Eggsy wonders if he was married at some point. Or if he had a boyfriend who died years ago. 

“Really, Eggsy,” Harry says, but he looks a bit fond, “I can tell you’re thinking the worst.”

Eggsy settles back in the booth with his legs splayed and his half-finished pint in his hand. He winks at Harry with more bravado than he feels. “Got to be something about you that ain’t polished and perfect. Don’t know many real gentlemen, me.”

Harry takes a swig of his own drink with all the grace of the Queen herself sipping at a strong cuppa. “‘There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.’”

“Fuck me if you made that up right here,” Eggsy says, laughing. 

“I can assure you I have never been so poetic in my life. It's Hemingway.” Harry leans in over the table with a conspiratorial look in his eye, and Eggsy matches him until their fingers are almost tangled on the wood, their glasses knocking against each other. “But I wonder if he said that before or after he divorced three wives and married a fourth. He could, perhaps, be trying to justify his own behavior.”

Eggsy grins back at him. “Sounds like a right wanker, him. Not like you, Hart.”

“Harry, please.” Harry interjects before Eggsy can say anything else. “When you call me Hart I have a vague recollection of my primary years. I’d like to let that time die, I think.”

“Harry,” Eggsy says, testing it out on his tongue. “It short for anything? Harold?”

Harry leans back again in his booth seat. “I’d like to think that only my mother and father know those particulars.”

“So, you a mystery then?” Eggsy drowns the rest of his pint and slams it down on the table. “I like a good puzzle, yeah? Let me get the next round. You want another Guinness?” 

Finishing off his glass, Harry offers Eggsy another pale blush. “Perhaps something different this time. I haven’t tried anything new in quite a while.”

Eggsy almost drops his glass, suddenly not sure if they’re talking about drinks any longer. From the way Harry straightens his tie and licks his lips, he doesn’t know for sure either. 

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. “Me neither.”

He ends up finding them two Strongbows and a pile of crispy chips to share. It takes him awhile as the crowd inside has grown while they were talking and the bar is blocked by new clubbers needing something greasy. By the time he gets back to the booth, he’s pulled his confidence back around him like a suit of armor.

They talk through a few more pints and just as many waters until last call comes and goes and the crowd barrels out onto the street. It's strangely comfortable with Harry. Nothing Eggsy says seems like it might blow up in his face, and despite Harry’s stiff spine and even stiffer manners, he smiles at all of Eggsy’s rude jokes and shoots back with one of his own just as fast. He isn’t like one of Eggsy’s mates, not really, but Eggsy finds himself relaxing. 

They part outside the door to the pub under a flickering lamp and the remainder of an early summer storm.

“Do you still have my card?” Harry asks as he puts up his umbrella. 

Eggsy pulls his hood up over his cap and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I might,” he says with as much cheek as he can muster. “Why? Want me to ring you?”

“Yes,” Harry says bluntly. “Or I can call you.”

Eggsy doesn’t know where this is going but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to stop it. “Alright. Give me your phone then. I’ll put my number in.” 

For an instant, his mind strings him out to the inevitable conclusion. He’ll give Harry his number. Harry might text or call him once. Maybe they’ll meet up again. But then people will start asking him about Eggsy. He’ll have to tell them that he’s seeing some chav from the estates. Or maybe he’ll say he isn’t seeing anyone. 

He won’t bring Eggsy around to meet his friends or family. Eggsy wouldn’t even know which fork to use and why would he? Most nights, he heats up some frozen something or other and eats it in front of the telly while his mum hangs off Dean’s arm in the shittiest local in London. 

Then, after a while, Harry will realize they’re too different. That what he really wanted this whole time was another Guinness and that he really doesn’t think Strongbow is the right one for him. He won’t mean it unkindly, he might have the best intentions in mind, but eventually he’ll see Eggsy is too much rough for him. He’ll stop returning Eggsy’s messages. They won’t meet up anymore. Eventually, Harry will ring him up and say he’s sorry, but it isn’t going to work between them. 

Eggsy looks down at Harry’s phone. He keys in his mobile number and hits save before he can think about it anymore. 

Harry pockets it. He’s smiling. The expression makes him look more like a bloke Eggsy might bring back to his bed instead of an old friend of his father’s. “May I kiss you?” he asks, and Eggsy feels a bit light headed. “I’ve been thinking about it all night, I confess.”

“Christ, Harry,” Eggsy laughs, snapping out of his mullish rut. “You’re a right git, you know?”

Tilting his head to the side in a faux innocent manner, “Is that a no, then?” Harry asks. He’s smirking a bit, though, his eyes tracing Eggsy’s face. 

“Fuck no,” Eggsy says. He steps close enough to smell of the pub lingering on Harry’s suit jacket. He doesn’t smell like any cologne; only skin and London and there’s a spot of something on his lapel that reminds Eggsy he’s still only human no matter how posh he seems.

“Ah,” Harry says. He cups Eggsy’s jaw with one hand to tilt his head up. 

Eggsy has to close his eyes. The kiss is almost perfunctory; nothing more than lips and stubble. But all of Eggsy’s imaginative barriers crack open and leave him breathless. He sees a different future for them, then. One filled with sitting together on the couch. Of going on holiday and cooking dinner. They argue and make up. They don’t get up in the morning until well after the alarm has gone off. It's a daydream he’s had for years; one that never happened after Dean took up with his mum. Something he’d hidden in the dark corners of his dreams thinking it would never see the light of day. 

Harry’s lips are soft and thin, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling like he’s never done anything so brazen before. “Good night, Eggsy,” he says. 

Eggsy can only nod, his hands shaking by his sides. It isn’t until after Harry’s caught a cab and waved goodbye again that Eggsy sits down on the wet curb and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck me.”

__


	3. Then, part II

Harry messages him the next day with full sentences and punctuation. Eggsy grins as soon as he sees the text but has to hide his smile as soon as Dean comes in from outside and demands dinner.

It isn’t long before they meet up again, this time for what seems like a proper date, on a sunny afternoon in a park that Eggsy’s never been to before. They get ice cream and chips and Eggsy laughs at Harry’s expression when he dips his chips in his melting dessert. Their conversation is easy and they move on from topic to topic as they watch an impromptu footie game crop up between a hoard of primary students.

Harry looks at ease in nothing more than a light gray suit and his dark glasses. He’s slouched a bit over the back of the bench with his legs spread out in front of him and his hair mussed from the breeze. He unknots his tie as soon as they sit and drapes it around his neck. Eggsy finds his eyes lingering on the tiny bit of skin exposed by Harry’s open collar.

They move to a different section of the park when the footie game gets too heated and the children’s mothers start to referee angrily amongst themselves. Here, the trees and bushes provide welcome shade from the sun, and Harry points out different species of butterflies as they wander the paths.

For the first time, the fact that Eggsy has to work in the evening makes him scowl. He’s reminded that he’s seen Harry multiple times in the middle of the day. “Don’t you got a job to go to,” he blurts out as they’re walking back towards the main gate. He winces at his own words. His mum was always telling him to mind his tongue. Dean liked to say the same thing but he did it with a hand around Eggsy’s arm and face full of booze.

Harry doesn’t seem to mind the impertinent question, though, and his stride never falters. “Not in the traditional sense, no.” He smiles then at some inside joke with himself. “Well, perhaps my job is particularly traditional. I oversee my family’s estate. Thankfully, I’m able to make my own hours, though it isn’t what I would call thrilling work.”

Eggsy frowns and stares down at the grass as they walk. His trainers suddenly look even more beat up than they did this morning. “Like farming and such?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like a right idiot.

“Some. More investments and the like.”

He says it like Eggsy’s supposed to know what that means. He doesn’t.

“I got to head out, Harry,” he says, changing the subject. He thinks he should say something polite, but he doesn’t know what.

Of course, Harry doesn’t have the same dilemma. “Would you like me to drop you off at work? It would be faster than the Tube.”

Eggsy looks over at a nearby group of mothers with buggies. They’re clearly out for an afternoon walk; all name brand leggings and pristine running shoes. “Nah,” he says. “I’ve got to stop at the flat first and change.”

He imagines Harry sitting in his mum’s living room next to an ash tray and an overflowing bin of bottles. Dean would be there yelling at the telly or telling Eggsy to go out and pick him up a pack of smokes. Daisy would probably be crying in her crib. She always does when Dean’s loud and not even her dummy is enough to distract her.

Harry doesn’t seem to suspect anything though and his smile is bright when he asks Eggsy if he can kiss him goodbye again.

Eggsy flushes and glances back at the mums and their buggies. They’re watching them, having ceased their conversation. Eggsy wonders what they see. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. “Yeah,” he tells Harry. “Alright then.”

This time, Harry reaches up to tip his cap back before leaning down to kiss him. Eggsy finds his hands on Harry’s chest, leaning forward a bit on his toes in an effort to get closer. Harry’s hand cradles the back of Eggsy’s neck as his thumb rubs a soft circle at the base of his head.

He grins up at Harry when they part, his sour mood forgotten. “I’ll ring you, yeah?” he asks, a bit breathless.

“I look forward to it,” Harry says with another light kiss before he goes.

Eggsy’s mum is able to pick up an additional shift at work and Eggsy spends most of his spare time outside of work watching Daisy. By then he’s been able to save up a bit of money and takes her to the zoo. She cries for the first half-hour, unused to the crowds and the other children as Eggsy pushes her around in her rickety pram. Eventually, he relents and holds her for the rest of their trip as she sniffles while pointing at the animals until her tears dry up on her red cheeks.

She isn’t talking yet even though Eggsy enunciates all the animals’ names over and over, but Eggsy tries to not let it bother him. She’d said his name a few times when she was younger but hasn’t uttered a sound since. But he’s able to buy her a stuffed bear at the end of the afternoon, which makes her face light up with a sound of delight.

Harry and him talk over text, and once over the phone, a few times as the weeks pass. However, they don’t see each other again until they meet up for Indian by Piccadilly. Harry winds up being a few minutes late but he greets Eggsy with a wide smile and a kiss at the Tube steps. Eggsy straightens his hoodie and glances around when Harry steps back to see if anyone’s caught notice of them.

The restaurant he leads them to swarms with tourists and theater-goers but Harry manages to get them a low table in the back with cushions and pillows meant for lounging and a leisurely meal. Thankfully, the menu looks a lot like the local place near the estates and Eggsy orders a chicken korma with confidence.

“You look well,” Harry says, ever polite, as they hand their menus back to the waiter.

Eggsy winks at him once they’re alone. “Yeah? See something you’re interested in?”

Harry has the decency to flush like any other human being and Eggsy settles into the pile of cushions. “How was your day at the zoo? Your sister looked quite happy in the photos you sent.”

“Good. I haven’t been since I was her age. She liked the tiger the best. It was right up against the cage when we went past.” He sips at his water as the waiter returns with their appetizers. He doesn’t recognize anything on the platter, but he eyes the pile of deep fried vegetables with anticipation.  “Bet you went with school.”

“I don't remember the zoo, no. But we did take a trip up to a few historical sites near Leeds. It was all terribly boring.” Harry dips one of the fried bits in a green sauce and Eggsy copies him. “A friend of mine, Charles I think, fell in the moat at one of the castles. It made the trip much more memorable.”

“You still know him?” Eggsy asks. He’d met Ryan and Jamal in primary and had never given them up for anyone else.

Harry hums. “I see him occasionally. Mostly at society functions.” He smiles. “But I will have to remind him of his wet fall the next time I see him. He’ll be furious I remember.”

They talk over the korma and vindaloo that Harry suggests they share. Harry tells Eggsy other stories about his schooling years and more particularly about a good friend, Hamish, otherwise known as Merlin when they were in secondary, who eventually became his estate manager.

“Actually,” he says. “I believe you’ve already spoken. You called him with the number on the back of the medal.”

Eggsy’s hand flies to his chest where the medal hangs, warm against his skin. “Shit. That Scottish bloke?”

Harry laughs, his eyes crinkling up. “Yes. That very man.”

Then, after they’ve stuffed themselves, Harry orders a tiny serving of gulab jamun that Eggsy finds are too sweet for his taste. Harry insists on the bill since he ordered the majority of the food but promises that Eggsy can pay next time. It’s distinctly uncouth of them, Harry says, to discuss money at the dinner table. His grandmother would be horrified. But he holds Eggsy’s hand in full view of their server as he speaks and smiles at him when Eggsy laughs.

The next time they meet, Eggsy picks a safe bet with a decadent beef pie and a hearty ale made right in the basement of the tiny pub. He takes the bill with pride and heads to Tesco afterwards to fill his mum’s fridge back up.

After that, it’s the National History Museum where Harry almost wanders into a decorative pond in the butterfly tent and apologizes profusely for loitering so long. Eggsy grabs his hand as they head back out into the sunshine and teases him in response. Then, they head to a music festival a week later where they lounge on a blanket and Harry complains about the musician’s mumbling lyrics. The next day, they meet up at a tea shop. Harry reads a well-worn copy of Huckleberry Finn and Eggsy scrolls on his phone. They only talk to ask if the other needs another cup.

When they part ways, Harry always asks if Eggsy wants a kiss and Eggsy always says yes.

The first time they meet at Harry’s house, Eggsy texts him as soon as he’s out of the Tube and knocks on the dark door while keeping an eye on the surrounding windows. It's a pretty enough facade; traditional with large curtained windows and the cheerful front mat. Inside, it looks like Harry. All fussy fabrics and deep woods. There’s bits and bobs spread out on every surface like he’s lived in the house for a long time with a deep sofa and plenty of places to set down a drink.

Harry sets him up in an instant with a cuppa and free reign of the remote. “Netflix is on the box if you want. Just let me grab the crisps.”

Eggsy settles on My Fair Lady. He figures it’s classic enough that Harry won’t ridicule his choice. In fact, he looks pleasantly taken aback when he returns from the kitchen with a platter of dips and cut veggies along with the crisps. “Oh,” he says sitting down next to Eggsy on the sofa. “I always thought Henry Higgins to be a bit of a simpleton.”

“This okay, then?” Eggsy asks. He rolls the remote around in his palm, looking at the pretty food set-up.

Harry settles in closer to Eggsy and reaches for a carrot. “Of course, Eggsy,” he says.

After that, it seems easier to relax against Harry’s warm side. He’s out of his suit for once and is done up in a soft jumper and trousers. With both their shoes off, Eggsy feels comfortable enough to pull his feet up onto the sofa. He waits for Harry to chide him, but it never comes, so he leans in a bit closer, his face hot.

Harry looks over at him when Eliza Doolittle loses her accent at Ascot. “I’m glad you came today. A movie isn’t the most exciting Saturday night.”

Eggsy nudges Harry with his knee. “Good for a cuddle though, innit?”

He laughs when Harry loses his polite veneer and hauls him up onto his lap. Behind him, on the telly, Eliza crows in her Cockney vulgarity. Eggsy leans in to kiss Harry like he’s wanted to; all lips and tongue and teeth. Harry’s big hands wrap around his waist and squeeze to tug him closer so their chests touch and Eggsy has to tilt Harry’s head up. Harry’s glasses dig into Eggsy’s cheeks but he doesn’t care. Not with Harry straining and indecent below him.

By the time Higgins asks for his slippers at the end, Eggsy’s hair is a right mess and Harry’s hands have wandered up under his polo. Harry looks equally disheveled with his glasses a bit crooked and his hair pushed out of its regular coif. His lips are red and puffy, his cheeks flushed.

The kiss he gives Eggsy that night when he leaves for his mum’s flat sends a scorching bolt down his spine and out through the soles of his trainers. Their lips linger against each other, connecting again and again as they stand on the step, as their fingers idle on each others’ arms. For the first time, Eggsy doesn’t care what the neighbors might think.

 

*****

 

Eventually, Harry convinces him to a dinner at some posh place with a French name he doesn’t know how to pronounce. Harry makes a big show of it, of course, as he never shies away from a chance to engage in some pomp and circumstance. Thankfully, it’s the kind of new-age restaurant that focuses more on the quality of the food instead of the richness of the interior design, so Eggsy doesn’t need to take a visit to Harry’s tailor. Harry insists that he’ll be perfectly well-dressed in a pair of ironed trousers and a button down. No jacket needed.

Harry adheres to his own dress-code, however, and greets Eggsy at the door to his town house is something that is probably a regular suit for him but that looks like it was made for a cover of a magazine. He’s all long navy legs and buttons shined to gleam.

At the sight of him, Eggsy smoothes down the front of his shirt anxiously. He’d changed in the Nando’s down the street, too self-conscious to let Dean catch sight of him in such an outfit. Because he had to roll everything up in a duffel, he looks somewhat rumpled. Especially compared to Harry’s smooth lines and polished shoes.

“Good evening, Eggsy,” Harry says. “Please come in.” He holds open his bright front door so Eggsy can shuffle past him out of the cooling, late summer dusk. “Can I take your bag?”

Eggsy thrusts it at him, nervous. “I look alright, yeah? This was the only shirt I could find.”

Harry closes the door and sets the duffel on the floor next to the entry table. “It fits you well enough. But perhaps we could roll up the sleeves. They’re quite short on you.”

In fact, Eggsy knows that everything fits just a tad off. The fabric around his biceps bunches awkwardly and the points of the collar are curling at the tips. The color is faded after multipule washes and years stored in the bottom of a drawer. Luckily, he’d been able to iron everything at his last shift at work. Not that it made much a different after he’d squirmed his way into the legs and arms in a public bathroom.

“Here, let me,” Harry says.

Eggsy holds out his arms, seeing the way the cuffs ride up past his wrists.

Harry smiles at him. “I think you’ll look quite dashing with a bit of your forearms out for show. They’re quite attractive.:

“You wot?” Eggsy says, his embarrassment crumbling at the edges. “That’s right strange, Harry. Nobody likes arms.”

“Well you’re right in that they don’t have quite the same appeal as, let’s say, a strong chest; but, they do hold a certain appeal.” He unbuttons one of Eggy’s cuffs and rolls the fabric methodically until the end of the sleeve is nestled right below Eggsy’s elbow.

“I ain’t never had somebody compliment me on my wrists before, Harry.” He says, incredulous.

Harry reaches for the other cuff and repeats the same process. “Then let me be the first.” He takes both o Eggsy’s writs in his warm hands and rotates them gently so that the pale underside of his forearms are facing upward. “They really are quite lovely.”

Eggsy feels his face heat up and he has to look away as Harry leans down to place light kisses on the insides of his arms. “Jesus, Harry,” he mutters.

A car horn blares from outside the door, and Eggsy jumps; pulling his wrists form Harry’s grasp.

Harry looks momentarily disappointed, but he straightens up anyways and fixes his own cufflinks. He clears his throat. “Shall we?”

They have a reservation, of course, and are seated as soon as they arrive. The interior of the restaurant is bathed in soft lighting with a smattering of upholstered chairs pulled up to small, intimate tables. There are a few larger groups, but most people are paired off for romantic dinners with shared desserts and a single check.

The host seats Harry and Eggsy at a table near the entrance where Eggsy is able to get a goo look at every person who enters or exits. He determines in a few minutes before the waiter comes to fill their water glasses that most of the other blokes are dressed even more casually than him. With that discovery, he’s able to sink back into the chair and smile at Harry over the tiny candle on their table.

“This is nice, innit?”

Harry’s busy with the drink menu but he smiles over at Eggsy. “It is,” he agrees.

Eggsy grins back at him.

The din of conversation and light music allows them a bit of privacy even though they’re sitting right up against their neighbors. Harry politely inquires about his mum and Dean as he always does and Eggsy steers the conversation away from that subject as soon as possible. Instead, they talk about a possible trip out of the city if Eggsy can get the time off and Harry’s recent experience volunteering to pick up rubbish on the side of the A2.

Their privacy doesn’t last long, however. As soon as the waiter has moved away from their table with their drink order, a shadow falls over the flickering candle.

“My word! If it isn’t Harry Hart. My god, man, how are you?”

Eggsy looks up to see a man hovering at their table, his face flushed with alcohol but dressed in a smart jacket. He has a smile on his face but it looks forced. Odd, since he came over to them. Eggsy refrains from frowning, annoyed at the interruption.

“Sir Brunswick,” Harry says, standing and folding his napkin on the table. He doesn’t look pleased but Eggsy knows Harry’s too polite to ever show it. “It's been too long.” He clearly means that it hasn’t been long enough.

They shake hands briefly, each barely touching the other before their arms fall away. There’s barely enough room for them to stand between the tables and Harry looks decidedly uncomfortable.

“I’ve been rather caught up with the upcoming election, as you can imagine,” Brunswick says. “There always work to be done, after all. Progress waits for no man.”

“‘Time and tide,’” Eggsy mutters. “‘Time and tide waits for no man.’”

The man seems to notice him for the first time. He looks puzzled, his eyebrows shooting up. “Harry, my dear man, I didn’t know that you-”

Eggsy frowns, and the man stops in the middle of his sentence. Standing and folding his napkin just like Harry had, Eggsy extends his hand. “Gary Unwin,” he says.

Brunswick looks over at Harry as he grasps Eggsy’s palm with a limp wrist.

“Gary,” Harry says with a pinched smile, “If I may introduce you to Sir Gerald Brunswick of the House of Parliament.”

Eggsy swallows down the first rude retort that comes to mind. “Pleasure,” he says instead.

“Of course, of course,” Brunswick mutters. “It certainly is.” His voice grows suddenly louder and boisterous. “And are you planning on voting in this upcoming election, Gary? There are a few major initiatives that could strongly affect the social and economic pathway of the nation. In this tumultuous political climate, every citizen’s voice is important.”

Eggsy blinks at the rapid shift. He glances at Harry but he’s no help; his face neutral. “Well,” Eggsy starts off, “I wasn’t planning on it really... But you might have changed my mind.” He hopes that the vague confirmation of a vote in the man’s favor will mollify him. Eggsy wants to get back to his drink and Harry.

Brunswick nods vigorously, reaching for Eggsy’s hand again and shaking it with renewed strength. “Excellent, excellent.” He turns towards Harry, seemingly forgetting about Eggsy. “You should think about running again, Hart. We could really use your viewpoint on the floor.”

Harry smiles politely. “I’ll put some thought into, of course.”

“Good, good,” Brunswick says. He glances over at Eggsy briefly again and frowns. “It was nice meeting you. I’m afraid I’ve got to be off. Do say hello to MacDouglas for me the next time you see him.”

“Of course. Good night, Brunswick.”

He leaves with a furrowed brow, and Eggsy and Harry settle back into their seats.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

Harry scoffs and folds his napkin back in his lap. “Hardely. More like one of the Old Guard. Friends of the family, so to say. We were in class together at Cambridge, however. That’s where we first met outside of state dinners.”

Copying Harry, Eggsy shoves his napkin underneath the table on his lap. “Is that where he gets off thinking I’m...I don’t know… some sort of kept boy or something?” He takes and angry sip of his drink. Its bitter and strong.

“Really, Eggsy, if anything, I’m positive he thought you were my son.”

“Fuck, Harry,” Eggsy hisses.

The waiter returns, inquiring if they’re ready to order. Eggsy has to grab at his menu, scanning the items for something to say; as, of course, Harry gestures for the waiter to take Eggsy’s order first. “The half chicken,” he says in a rush. He recognizes it, at least.

Harry orders the pheasant, nodding at the waiter as he leaves.

Eggsy leans over the table instantly, trying to keep his voice low. “You son?” He repeats. “That ain’t better than a rent boy, you know.”

Looking nonplussed, Harry takes a sip of his own drink. “People see what they will. It isn’t anything to bother yourself over.”

Eggsy glances at the doorway to the restaurant where Brunswick had disappeared through only a few minutes ago. “You ain’t worried he’ll say anything?”

“To who? With what story?” Harry says, patiently. “There isn’t anything to tell. We’re simply out at a restaurant together-”

“On a date,” Eggsy interrupts.

“...on a date,” Harry continues as if Eggsy hadn’t said anything. “That’s hardly cause for a scandal.”

Eggsy fiddles with the napkin in his lap, looking down at the table and his cutlery. “It ain’t?”

Harry’s face softens, a more genuine smile overcoming his features. “Of course not, my dear. The sexual revolution was some time ago. Before you were born, actually.”

Eggsy doesn’t want the reminder of their age gap. Its only one more reason for Harry’s friends to see him as a different type of lie. “For your lot, maybe,” he grumbles. “But mine down at the estates still thing that God created man and women for the purpose of making babies, yeah?”

Laughing, Harry leans back in his chair, and Eggsy sneers, his shoulders tensing. “It weren’t meant to be funny, bruv.”

Harry looks apologetic. “No, of course not. I simply appreciate your manner of speaking. I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation.”

Eggsy relaxes as bit and sips at his drink some more. “Yeah, I know.” He sighs. “I forget how easy it is for you. Nobody watching your choices. Nobody to call you out if they don’t like what they see.”

“Is that what a silver spoon up the arse gets me?”

Eggsy laughs in a started burst causing the couple at the table next to them to look over. They turn back to the their food quickly though, when nothing else interesting occurs. Apparently they don’t find a posh middle-aged man out with a rough to be noteworthy. It's an odd mindset; one that Eggsy is wholly unfamiliar with.

Harry’s smile fades though. “I hope you don’t think that I’ve been spoiled like this all my life, Eggsy. I certainly couldn’t have...well. There was a time when we might have pretended an evening like this, with people who look like you and I, was nothing more than a mentoring opportunity.”

Sullen, Eggsy runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “‘Cause you’re you or because I’m me?”

“Perhaps both.”

Eggsy thinks about this, biting his lip. “So you never took a bloke out on a date when you was young?”

“I did. Many times.” Harry looks pleased at the memory. “There was this one lover of mine, Nathan, who insisted that we introduce each other as cousins whenever the question came up.”

Eggsy leans forward, equally interested. His dour mood falls away instantly. “Wot? Like you was sleeping with him and he wanted to say you were related? That’s rank, Haz.”

“It certainly was,” Harry confirms. “I tired to explain to him, several times in fact, that such a story was incriminating, at best. And at worst, everyone would start to think that we were the worst possible adulterers but he wouldn’t listen. It all unraveled, though, when a good friend of his found out that he actually was dating some and not just staying with his cousin for an extended period of time.”

“That sounds like it went well,” Eggsy says, grinning.

“Oh, it was a spectacular shit show.” Harry looks satisfied, a smirk on his face.

Eggsy hesitates before asking, “And did you stay together, afterwards?”

“No, not at all. Outing yourself in such a gigantic lie hit him hard.” Harry’s gaze glazes over as his eyes unfocus for a moment. “We broke up the next morning,” he says, absently.

Eggsy doesn’t know what to say so he finishes his drink. They sit quietly until the waitstaff brings over their food. Then, Harry seems to remember himself and directs the conversation elsewhere.

He doesn’t ask Eggsy about any of his own past boyfriends. It's a good thing, as Eggsy would only be able to tell him about Ali and their drunken fumble the night after he’d come back from the Engineers. Eggsy had been angry and upset and Ali had been gentle and beautiful. Too bad their relationship started and ended with a filthy snog and a fuck at Ali’s shit flat near the club. Before that, if he could get in a quickie at a friend’s place while they were ditching school, he counted it as a win.

Dinner with Harry, Eggsy decides, is far, far better.

 

*****

 

In the following weeks, they meet up at Harry’s house just as often, or even more often, than they meet up around the city. When they’re at Harry’s, Eggsy prefers to sit on the floor in front of the coffee table with his side to the fireplace. Sometimes, they’ll watch a movie or the telly. Harry doesn’t keep the volume as loud as Dean unless they’re watching something with a bit of action, and Eggsy takes advantage of the placid evenings to kiss Harry until they’re both a bit breathless.

Eggsy finds he enjoys the calm even when they’re sitting and reading or when Harry whips something up in the kitchen. Eggsy likes to sit on the counter and watch as Harry methodically mixes and chops. Sometimes Harry puts him to work shaving fresh parmesan cheese or rolling meatballs. They don’t talk much during these cooking sessions; instead, saving the conversation for dinner or lunch at the dining table with real plates and paper napkins.

One night, Harry lights a small fire, barely more than a few candles’ worth, as the week had been overcast and wet from a light drizzle. It's enough to warm up Eggsy’s ribs and gather in the crease behind his knees as he settles in for the night. Already, the windows are fogging over with a light film of condensation almost as if it’s February and not half-way through August.

He watches, his face relaxing, as the ice in his glass cracks and sends a ripple out over the amber contents. The first slow, warbling notes of some singer tingles on the edge of his senses, but he’s far too lost to sing along. He hums instead, letting his head rest on his wrist so he can easily see over to the sofa.

Harry’s smiling at him from his sprawl across the cushions. All legs and shirtsleeves as if he lives the life of a reclusive secret agent. “I think I might have overdid it with the cake,” he says. He takes a mouthful of his own drink and lets his arms hang off the edge of his knees. “Perhaps the raspberry filling was a bit decadent.”

Eggsy shakes his head into his arm. “Nah, bruv,” he says, mumbling over the sweet aftertaste of the whiskey on his tongue. “‘S perfect. ‘M having another piece.”

Harry laughs in a dry chuckle. “Oh? And will this be after I pick you off the floor or will you be stumbling into the kitchen on your own legs?”

Grumbling, Eggsy clambers up onto the couch next to Harry, flopping back into the soft cushions. “Fuck, Harry,” he says in a whine. “I’m so fucking fat.”

Placing his drink down on the coffee table, Harry pulls Eggsy’s legs closer and drapes them over his lap. His long fingers dig into the thick muscle of Eggsy’s calves and he groans under the sensation. “Perhaps next time we should just skip dinner and go straight to dessert. There is this wonderful Thai bistro - I’ve been meaning to take you there - that makes the most fabulous black sticky rice.”

“Sticky rice for dessert? Sounds weird, Harry.” Eggsy yawns, relaxing back into the lumpy cushions and draping his arm across his eyes. “You always like that freaky stuff.”

Harry chuckles and moves onto Eggsy’s feet. “Anything to keep up with you.”

“Please, Harry. I’ve said it before; you’re fit as fuck.”

Harry sniffs. “I was a bit flabby as a boy. After University I was determined to start afresh.”

Eggsy sits up, his exhaustion forgotten, and he leans in to peer more closely at Harry’s face in the dim light. “Are you taking the piss, bruv? You, fat?” He licks his lips and then grins. “Like fat like birds say they fat or fat as in the doctor was telling you to do something about it fat?”

Harry squeezes Eggsy’s foot and tries to frown. But his lips get jumbled up and he ends up making a face like he bit into something sour. “I believe that is a terribly rude question,” he says, mock outrage making him clear his throat to stop from laughing. He hauls Eggsy into his lap and nips down his jaw to his neck. “Terribly rude,” he mumbles again.

But Eggsy laughs and squirms in his grip. The whiskey burns bright and warm in his stomach and Harry’s hands cradle his waist with delicate reverence. He sighs, tracing Harry’s shoulders with his palms and rocks up into Harry’s lap.

Harry’s hands slide down to his arse to pull him closer. “Do you want to come with me tomorrow morning? I go on a run– a quick one, just a half hour or so–at 5:30.”

Eggsy thinks about the time the Tube takes to get from his mum’s flat to Harry’s neighborhood and shakes his head. His fingers twist about Harry’s starched collar. “Nah, mate. Can’t get here in time.”

“I was hoping,” Harry says with a raised eyebrow, looking down at Eggsy’s tight jeans, “you’d like to stay the night.” He’s pulled his hands back to leave Eggsy sitting on his legs with nothing to hold him there, giving him space.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, grinning and grasping Harry’s wrists to tug them back up to his thighs. “Are you asking me, as a gentleman, if you can bugger me?”

Harry laughs, a low rumbling chuckle, his cheeks heating up in a sumptuous shade of pink. “Cheeky. I was, as a matter of fact,” he says. “That is, if you’re amenable.”

Eggsy pulls Harry’s hands to his mouth and kisses each of his palms. He wants to rush into this. He wants to stand up and drop his jeans and pants around his ankles and bend over so Harry can see how much he wants this, but Harry needs more care than that. So, he kisses Harry’s palms and his knuckles and the delicate skin of his wrists and says, “Yes, Harry.”

Harry takes him upstairs then, past the hall loo with his extensive butterfly collection and up the staircase with the framed photos of long dead ancestors. He holds Eggsy’s hand down the first floor hall, past the guest room and his office and in through the door to his bedroom.

Eggsy’s seen the room before. On one of his earlier visits, Harry had given him a full tour of the house at Eggsy’s insistence. He joked that he didn’t want to get lost in such a fussy place, but what he really wanted was a look into the private, but tangible bits of Harry’s life. To see past the suit and the polite manners and the gentlemanly behavior. To see what other type of man Harry Hart might be.

He’s found that Harry likes collecting art that looked like a child painted it. That he hates doing the dishes directly after dinner and prefers to wait until the next morning to wash up. In his ensuite, he keeps a stack of magazines featuring home remodeling next to the toilet and doesn’t see the point in an actual tub. There’s a framed photo of a dog on the desk in Harry’s office. His guest room doesn’t have curtains on the window because he accidently set the last ones on fire three years ago and never got around to replacing them.

There aren’t any pictures in Harry’s bedroom, however. No talismans of past lovers or mementos from a couples vacations. Just clean sheets and a thick duvet.

Eggsy sits on the edge of the bed and pulls his polo up over his head. He snags Harry by his belt loops and tugs him closer. “Touch me, Harry,” he says in a whisper. “Fucking come here and touch me.”

Harry’s on him in an instant with teeth on his collarbone and hands tangled in his hair. He yanks Eggsy’s head up for a brutal kiss, sucking on his tongue and biting at the corners of his mouth like a man starved. His hands trace every contour and swell of Eggsy’s chest and back, rubbing over his nipples and down along his waist. He pauses to pinch and tickle, following his fingers with his hot mouth.

“Shit,” Eggsy says as Harry sinks to his knees and tugs Eggsy’s jeans off with a little more brute strength.

“My dear,” Harry says, his voice low and cracked. “My darling.”

He sucks on the outline of Eggsy’s dick in the confines of his tight pants before tugging those off too and swallows him down in one giant gulp. Eggsy moans, his hands flying to Harry’s hair, with his head thrown back as his hips jerk at every wet suck. He whines Harry’s name over and over until he can’t stand it any longer. 

Eggsy pushes Harry off. “Fuck, I’m gonna come if  you don’t stop, you wanker.”

Harry doesn’t look apologetic. “That’s quite the point,” he says, teasing with fake haughtiness. 

Eggsy uses his heels to shove at Harry’s shoulders until Harry stis back on the floor. Eggsy slides off the bed, kneeling in front of Harry and slamming their lips together for a kiss. It's all tongue and teeth; hands grasping at each other hard enough to leave red skin behind. 

Eggsy fumbles with Harry’s belt. He gets his fingers tied up in Harry’s zipper, too uncoordinated to think straight with Harry’s tongue on his neck. Harry rumbles low in his chest when Eggsy finds his cock and gives it one long stroke. 

Harry pushes him back again, to the floor, and follows him down. In the rush, Eggsy back fits the carpet and he stares up at Harry, momentary breathless.

There’s a moment where they look at each other, taking in the rise of each other’s chests and the pink on each other’s cheeks. Harry smiles at him, something soppy and all together too endearing, and leans down to kiss Eggsy. They go slower this time, taking little tastes of each other, curling their fingers together above Eggsy’s head. 

“Eggsy,” Harry whispers into Eggsy’s mouth. He rolls his hips forward, his shoulders suddenly straining. 

It's a bit awkward with Harry still done up in his trousers; but Eggsy doesn’t take long to find his own rocking rhythm. Harry wraps a hand around both of them; and between the memory of Harry’s mouth on him, the feel of Harry’s body tight against his, and the sounds from Harry’s mouth, Eggsy easily tips over the edge. 

Harry holds him through it, pulling Eggsy up and against him as Eggsy’s hips jerk and stutter in his drawn out pleasure. His back flexes and then relaxes, as he buries his face into Harry’s neck. He takes a second to remember how to breath, his body shivering with the last vestiges of his orgasm. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he sighs. Harry’s body shudders as his finger’s squeeze around both their cocks. A red smear spreads out across his chest as he comes, hot and wet across Eggsy’s stomach, and Eggsy kisses it away with lazy drowsiness. 

Harry’s hands squeeze around his arse, and Eggsy kisses Harry’s neck. “Up on the bed, yeah?”

They roll so Harry can tuck Eggsy under one long arm. For a moment before he drifts off, Eggsy concentrates on the flickering light outside the large windows and the distant sound of the street traffic. It’s quiet on Harry’s row; none of the blasting car horns and loud arguing that Eggsy’s used to. He sighs and pulls the light sheet up higher over his chest. Harry mumbles something into his ear, seemingly already asleep. 

He surprises Eggsy by suddenly saying, “Do you need to let anyone know you’ll be staying out tonight?”

Eggsy shrugs, slightly impeded by the tangled sheets. “Nah.” His mum’ll just ask too many questions about who he’s with and where she’s from. He changes the subject. “You still going on that run tomorrow?”

Harry’s arms tighten around him and he rubs his face into Eggsy’s neck. “Perhaps. If I don’t find something more enticing to distract me in the morning.”

Eggsy drifts off to the tick of the tiny clock on the side table. 

 

****

 

It's never something they say out loud, no formal declaration or hesitant question, but Harry’s house starts to feel more like Eggsy’s own home than his mum’s flat. Soon, he’s leaving half-full glasses of water on the side tables in the living room and forgetting to pick up his socks from the foyer. Harry starts asking him to pick up ingredients at the corner shop if he’s coming from work.

He starts to spend nights at Harry’s more often than his own bed at the estates. They wake up in the morning and have dry toast and tea in chipped mugs. Eggsy makes an effort to make lunch when he can, even if it’s nothing more than sandwiches. They talk about plans for the week over dinner.

Ryan and Jamal eventually start to give him shit over ditching them for his mystery bird. When Eggsy finally gives in and they meet at The Black Prince for a pint, Eggsy immediately feels the divide between them. Ryan talks about his new job sweeping the floors at the local hospital and Jamal complains about his bird. Apparently she’s been texting him, asking him where he’s at and who’s going to be there. “She’s crazy, mates,” Jamal mumbles into his pint.

Eggsy keeps animated enough. He tells them some stories from the laundrette and about how Daisy's been walking around more on her own when Dean isn't around. He doesn’t tell them about Harry Hart and his posh house and fitted suits. What would he tell them anyways, he thinks. About how he’s seeing a man double his age with an estate to go along with his estate manager? That he isn’t in it for the money, swear down?

They’d laugh and tell him, “Good one, Eggsy!”

He’d thought it would be Harry that would keep Eggsy a secret. But now it’s him pretending Harry isn’t something special.

Eggsy looks down into his half-drunk pint and feels sick.

He goes back to his mum’s after parting from Ryan and Jamal with promises to meet up again soon.

Their feeble plans never pan out when Harry arranges for Eggsy and him to go on an extra-long weekend trip. Eggsy takes off work for the first time, brings a small bag that had been packed the night before, and waits patiently for Harry to pull his car around to the front of the townhouse. He’s excited, despite the pomp of it all as he can't remember the last time he’d been out of London proper. Probably not since his stint in the Royal Engineers.

He almost shits himself when Harry pulls up along the curb and rolls down the driver's side window. “Good Morning, Eggsy,” Harry says as if he were sitting in a Vauxhall.  

Eggsy grins at him, his hood pulled up over his snapback and his hands in his pockets. “Morning, Harry,” he says. He eyes the car, enamored by the planes of glossy slate gray paint and black rims, and shifts on the balls of his feet. “You didn’t mention we’d be driving up in this. Jesus, Harry. An R8?”

Harry smiles up at him, his face serene and his lips twitching at the corners. “Oh, I didn’t think you’d be interested in this old thing. It's hardly this year’s model. I’ve had it in storage for too long.“

“Please, Harry,” Eggsy teases, chiding, “Ignorance doesn’t suit a gentleman,” he says in his best approximation of Harry’s clipped accent.

Harry looks like he wants to roll his eyes but instead he opens the door and Eggsy scuttles back to give the taller man space. “Why don’t we put your bag in the boot. Is there anything you’ll need for the trip in there?”

Eggsy whines in pleasure and follows Harry to the front of the car just in time to see the hood pop up. He drops his duffel in the tiny hollow space. “Why didn’t you spring for the butterfly doors, Harry? They couldn’t have been much extra. Everybody'd take you for a real footballer then.” He runs his hands up under the wheel well; too afraid to touch the waxed paint.

Harry smiles down at him and leans in closer. “I confess I had some difficulty getting them open in the showroom,” he says without affect, his hair a bit mussed from the light breeze.

Shaking his head, Eggsy laughs. “Christ, you’re such an old man, aren’t you?”

“True,” Harry hums. “Old enough I suppose that I’d much rather let you drive us up. Perhaps I’ll be able to get a nap in on the way so I’ll be up for supper after seven.”

Eggsy’s breath catches in his throat. “Please tell me you ain’t joking.”

“Of course not,” Harry says. He steps around to the passenger’s side of the car. “I can think of nothing more wonderful.”

Eggsy slides into the seat with surprisingly more grace than he expects given that his legs are shaking. The steering wheel leather feels smooth and sumptuous under his hand and he takes a moment to run his fingers over the tight binding on the dash.

Harry clears his throat. “I believe you’ll like to divert your attention to behind the seat.”

Eggsy turns, a garbled laugh tumbling out of his mouth. “Fuck yes, Harry,” he says, moaning at the sight of the engine behind their seats. “Shit, I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Harry hums again and settles further into his own seat. He pulls the crash webbing down across his shoulders and clicks it into place between his thighs. “Perhaps I should have ascertained if you actually have a license before offering this adventure, considering the nature of our initial acquaintance.”

Following his example, Eggsy pulls the straps over his shoulders and wiggles into the bucket seat. He reaches down along the side of the seat, fiddling with the controls until the seat begins to slide forward. “Christ, you’ve got long legs, Harry.” He slides his hands around the steering wheel again and toggles the controls to adjust the mirrors for his height. “But, yeah, the British government says I’m allowed to drive. Got the plastic card and everything.”

“Well good then,” Harry says; seemingly unconcerned no matter the answer. “Shall we then? I’ve already programmed the destination into the dash.”

The neighborhoods they pass through are quiet on a Saturday morning; most people choosing to sleep in after a long work week. And there are only a few poor sods fortunate enough to see Eggsy slink around stop signs and lights in the dim, cooler morning air. Eggsy keeps his foot reeled in tight as they make their way through the city proper and out onto the carriageway. He half expects to be pulled over every time they pass a copper and he checks the speed indicator obsessively.

It isn’t until they start passing greenways that his resolve cracks between villages. After ten minutes dawdling behind a Vauxhall on a straight going well below the speed limit does Harry sigh and say, “Darling, I was joking about a kip on the way up. But if you don’t get on with it, I can’t promise to stay awake.”

The roar of the engine behind his head gives Eggsy a half stiffie as he swerves around the sedan and practically flies across the surface of the road. “Fuck yeah,” he says in a cracked shout, sitting up straighter and pressing the clutch up into 4th.  

He glances over at Harry but the man does little more than smile, the skin rumpled around his eyes, and place his hand on Eggsy’s knee. “I’ve underestimated your restraint, I see.”

Eggsy laughs, his face split with a grin. He lifts his foot off the accelerator a tad, down-shifts, and places his hand on top of Harry’s. “Yeah, me too, Haz.”

The rest of the trip goes by much too quickly. With the combination of Harry’s warm hand on his leg, the shriek of the German engine and dizzying pass of green hills, they’re pulling onto the final lane in what seems like a few moments. He hadn’t even turned on music; just content to drive and chatter with Harry.

Harry clears his throat, speaking up in a more serious tone over the sound of the crunching gravel. “I feel the need to remind you that my parents were… well, they both came from quite wealthy families. I’m sure you’re expecting the house to be large. But, well... There’s a reason I only come here a few times a month. It's a bit overwhelming, I think. Even if I grew up here.”

When the house comes into view, Eggsy swallows and grips the steering wheel with white knuckles. His mum would love it, he knows, as it looks like something out of a melodramatic period romance.

“Just pull up in front,” Harry says, polite enough to ignore his reaction. “Someone will take the car around back after we get settled in.”

High stone walls rise up above Eggsy’s head as he climbs out of the low car. He cranes his neck up, trying to catch a glimpse of all the windows before Harry comes around and sees him gawking. Spread out around them in a lovely carpet of green and golden hues, the grassy lawn fades off into the distant rolling hills and is peppered with gracious trees and manicured walkways. The view shimmers in the late September heat.

Harry places a hand on Eggsy’s lower back. “Come now. We’ll certainly have plenty of time to see it all. I thought a picnic this afternoon might be pleasant.”

The front door of the house opens, a tall thing with giant hinges and a stained grain, and a prim butler steps out.

Eggsy swallows again, his voice stuck somewhere down by his scuffed trainers. “Yeah, Haz. Sounds good.”

“My Lord,” the butler says, sweeping forward towards them. “Welcome back to Hertford.”

“Thank you, Simons. Lovely, as always.” Harry pushes Eggsy forward a bit and he suddenly doesn’t know if he’s supposed to shake the man’s hand. “May I present Gary Unwin. My guest.”

Eggsy holds his hand out anyways. He’d rather seem like a pleb than a toff. It wouldn't do, he can imagine his mum saying, to pretend to be anything other than what he is. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Simons quirks an eyebrow, but clasps his hand without even a hint of hesitation. “A pleasure, Mr. Unwin.” He looks to Harry again. “Now sirs, if you’ll follow me, I’ve arranged some refreshments for you in the library. We have the basket packed, and Liam is ready to go whenever you may desire.”

“Ah, thank you,” Harry says.

His hand slides up to Eggsy’s shoulder as they go in through the doors. Eggsy wonders if it's because Harry is afraid he might topple over like some overcome damsel at the sight of the entryway. Of course, as if to prove a point, his feet do stutter almost catching on the enormous rug at the imposing grand portraits and fancy tables.

Sunlight streams in through the soaring windows illuminating the deep wood paneling on the walls and the shine of the marble floors. His eyes stray upwards again to the coffered ceilings and detailed paintings nestled within each section. An opulent wooden clock near the grand staircase ticks with ringing absolution in the still interior.

Harry steers him to the left and into the library and Eggsy says, “Christ, Harry,” again before the older man can convince him to sit on the plush velvet sofa. “I didn’t bring shirts nice enough for this place.”

Harry sits next to him, slumping back into the cushions like he does when they’re alone. He smiles ruefully. “A bit much, isn’t it?” He says. He rubs a hand up Eggsy’s stiff back and up under the collar of his polo. “You can see why I prefer the London house. Well, my London house I should say. The family one is a bit much as well.”

The clock chimes from the entry and Eggsy can almost hear the wet suck of his own lungs in the quiet. There isn’t any signs of Harry in the room. No water glasses gathering fingerprints on the side tables. No books stacked beside the chairs. And certainly no trainers lined up at the front door and caps stored on the coat rack.

His fingers twist in the fabric of his jeans.

“Would you like something to drink?” Harry asks, ever a perfect host. “I have a feeling we’ve been gifted a lovely mint julep. They were a favorite of mine during the summer holidays and Simons is nothing if not attentive to details.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eggsy says, but he misses Harry’s fingers along his neck. He follows Harry to the sideboard and thanks him for his drink.

“I think,” Harry says after they’ve both had a few sips – and Eggsy can see why Harry likes this drink so much – “The picnic would be a good opportunity to stretch our legs after the drive. You’ll find, sadly, that despite the size of the house, there isn’t much by way of diversions.”

He wanders back over to the couch and settles on the edge so he can look up at Eggsy across the room. “I need to meet with Merlin, of course. I still have my usual official business in the village. Other than that, we’re free to enjoy ourselves.”

Eggsy pulls up a smile to please Harry. “The drive up was good fun, bruv,” Eggsy says. “Anything else’d just be extra, really.”

Harry finishes the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass on the side table. “A picnic it is then,” he said. And a soft smile paints him almost shy in the luxurious surroundings. “I must admit, Eggsy, I’m happy to have you here. You...well,” he says, pausing, “I like to see you in my home. And well, this is another important part of my life. Even if I don’t relish the necessity. I like to see you here.”

A blush flares up across Eggsy’s cheeks and he ducks his head to stare at the red carpet. “Shit, Harry,” he said, mumbling. “You come right out like that.”

Harry stands again to hover in front of Eggsy. His polished oxfords shine in the warm summer light. “I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright. I’ve been thinking of it since this morning.”

Eggsy looks up, his heart settling in his chest at the comfortable ease of the request. “Yes, Harry,” he says. “You don’t gotta ask, you know. Not when we’re like this, yeah?”

Cupping Eggsy’s face and neck with his wide hands, Harry leans in to kiss the side of his mouth. A tingle of heat pulls a sharp tickle up Eggsy’s spine and he tilts his head so Harry’s next brush allows their lips to slide together.

Eggsy steps closer, resting his hands on Harry’s elbows. He tilts his neck backward, just like when he looked up at the house earlier, so that Harry can lean down to kiss him again. They stand together on the deep stretch of carpet, lingering together in the same breath.

“I believe I find myself quite enraptured with you, darling,” Harry says, brushing his thumb over Eggsy’s eyebrow and down through the thin scar over his eye.

A soft grin spreads across Eggsy’s face before he leans up for another.

The echo of the butler’s footsteps breaks through their reprieve as Simons approaches the library. Harry steps back, his hand still lingering on Eggsy’s neck as Simons knocks and then enters.

Eggsy steps back, more settled with Harry’s close comfort. He reminds himself Harry wants him here, no matter how out of place he is.

They head out across the lawn soon afterwards with a promise that their picnic lunch will be waiting when they arrive. Harry seems to know where they’re headed even though the butler never gave away a hint. They hold hands as they walk; Eggsy swinging their arms together and occasionally tugging on Harry to speed up or slow down depending on his fancy.

First they skirt around behind the house itself and then take up a small hill and past a formal garden. They pass a folly, hidden in a copse of trees, that Harry explains was built by his great-grandfather when such things were in vogue.

“If they want to look at some crumbling buildings, they can just stroll down to the estates,” Eggsy says in mock affront as Harry gazes down at him in the midday heat.

“My father was always out on a walk,” Harry says as they pass a bench under a wide tree. “He’d come out for a half-hour before breakfast and then again before the gong for dinner. And, whenever there would be an excuse to walk into town or down to one of the tenant farms, he’d complain about taking the car so adamantly that my mother would tell him she’d hoped he’d stumble and fall in the lane before he even got to the main road.”

Eggsy laughs, picturing a rich old married couple sitting as far apart from each other as they could at a wide gleaming table, bickering over a spread fit for a king.

“Did they like each other?” Eggsy asks. He wonders if it's too personal, but Harry seems to want to talk personal.

“I suppose. As much as a marriage of convenience can.That was everyone then. Love was for novels; not for real life.” They both look up as a songbird squeaks from a nearby bush. “They got on.”

Eggsy licks his lips. “And your mum? Did she like walks?”

Harry chuckles. “Oh no, not ever. She was one of the lucky young ladies to be old enough to start driving once automobiles became more commonplace. She drove the same model until my grandparents died and my father officially inherited. Then she went out and bought a classic Triumph TR1 in British Racing Green. We still have it, of course.” He looks over at Eggsy and hums. “Perhaps you’d like to drive it into the village this afternoon. I’m afraid I don’t know if it’s up for much more. I don’t keep a chauffeur on staff any longer so some of the cars haven’t been as well maintained as they should.”

Eggsy’s eyebrows quirk up at his excitement. “Cars? Like more than one?”

Harry laughs, smiling. “Yes, well, she didn’t stop there. Mostly British, though. The Harts were never ones for Italian character.”

They come around a bit of tall grass to see a blanket spread out on the the manicured part of the lawn in a small clearing. An enormous hamper is set up on one corner overflowing with plates and wine glasses and wax-wrapped packages. Eggsy settles down next to it to pull out chilled cuts of cheeses, thick slabs of sandwiches, and bottles of golden wine.

He looks up at Harry, flushing in the heat and grinning. “A picnic, you said?”

Harry helps him unpack the hamper, setting aside cutlery and napkins and searching for the wine opener. “If my grandmother would have seen this! She always insisted on a full picnic complete with footmen and a junior cook so there could be no mistakes.”

He pours them both a glass and chooses a simple turkey club and a few hard boiled eggs for himself.

Eggsy barely swallows around a bite of his own ham and horseradish before laughing. “You posh lot always like to complicate it. Nothing complicated about a picnic. Throw some beers in with a set of toast. No complaints there.”

Harry sets down his sandwich to pull off his suit jacket, mindful of the glasses teetering on the blanket. He leans back on his elbow and Eggsy shuffles into a more comfortable position with his legs folded in front of him.

“Would you like to join me at my solicitor's office tomorrow afternoon? I need to review some changes to the entitlement. A bit dull, unfortunately. But necessary for the running of the estate.”

“Don’t you pay him to do that for you?” Eggsy asks over a mouthful of cut apples.

Harry hums, “Yes, but he can’t sign on the dotted line no matter how much I would love to let it slip through my fingers.”

Eggsy licks his lips as Harry takes another controlled bite of this sandwich. “Have to fake your own death then, yeah? Pawn it off on some distant nephew who still got spots and likes tennis.”

Chuckling, Harry smiles up at Eggsy. “As always, you have quite the imagination.” He sets down his sandwich into its wrapping and wiggles closer to Eggsy.

Grinning, Eggsy elbows him in the ribs. “Full of surprises, ain’t I?”

Harry reaches for Eggsy’s free hand and rubs a soft kiss along his knuckles before rubbing his cheek along the boney ridge. “That you are, my dear Eggsy.”

 

****

 

They have breakfast each morning in one of the smaller dining rooms, during which Simon insists on standing by the door to assist them with anything they might need. Lunch is more causal, often taking it out on the shaded patio with Harry mulling over the paper while Eggsy feels relaxed enough to lean back in his chair and rest his plate on his knee. Dinner, unsurprisingly, boasts a few courses and more French names than Eggsy has ever heard of. Harry changes into a fresh suit every night and smiles and kisses Eggsy when Eggsy reminds him that he only has the same polos he’s been wearing.

“It hardly matters,” he says as he escorts them into the dining room. “After all, I quite like the way you look in those short sleeves.”

Eggsy laughs, flexing his arm muscles, momentary caught off-guard by Harry’s comment, and allows himself to enjoy the meal despite the way the staff is better dressed than he is.

They have Merlin, as he insists on being called even though Harry calls him Hamish anyways, over for dinner twice while they visit. Each time, he’s polite and courteous to Eggsy, if a bit serious.

The first time, over the first course, Eggsy thanks him sullenly for helping him over the phone. Merlin looks blank for a moment before turning to Harry. “Yer fucking the boy you pulled from the Met, Harry? Jesus.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening around his silverware. “Oi!  You fucker-” he spits before Harry starts laughing from the head of the table.

“Really, Hamish. Don’t sound like such a schoolmarm.”

Eggsy’s fingers relax slightly, the muscles in his back softening.

Merlin drops his own silverware onto his plate with a loud clang and flops back in his chair. “Christ,” he says, rubbing one hand over his face. He looks over at Eggsy. “I hope you’re up for the challenge of keeping him in line, Gary. he’s a right toff.”

Eggsy licks his lips. “It’s Eggsy, Merlin,” he says. “Nobody who knows me calls me Gary.”

Merlin regards him in silence for a moment as Harry watches. “Alright, lad. Eggsy it is then.”

They end the dinner with a bottle of brandy and, eventually, cigars on the side patio.

Mornings are spent spread out across the duvet in the dark behind thick curtains with their hands running over naked skin and coaxing each other to hardness. In the dim light, Eggsy likes to use his lips to trace every furrow of Harry’s body and find all the bits of him that illicit gasps or body-curling moans. Harry, in turn, props Eggsy up on his lap and helps him slide and shudder his way to coming against them both.

Sometimes they take one of Harry’s mum’s cars out for a drive along narrow lanes and through quaint villages. Once, they stop along a small river that Harry insists was a spot he used to swim in as a child and he promptly rolls ups his trousers, shucks his shoes and socks, and wades right in. Eggsy watches from the grassy hill by the road, laughing at Harry’s expression when he steps into the mucky riverbed.

It all feels a lifetime away from his mum’s flat.

The day before they’re supposed to return to London, Harry and Eggsy attend a garden party thrown by a neighbor. Harry apologizes for the sudden change in plans, but says the invitation was extended at the last minute as the host did not think he was in the area, and that it would be rude to decline.

Eggsy just shrugs when they climb into one of Harry’s more sedate cars, a black Volvo this time. “It's fine, Harry.” He fiddles with the hem of his nicest polo and glances over to eye up Harry’s clothes. They look like something that would stain if he spilled a drop of water on them.

Harry covers his fingers with his own large hand. “Darling, you look wonderful,” he says, ever polite.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, not agreeing in the least. “Okay then.”

The ‘neighbors’ turn out to be an hour drive away down winding country lanes and up a long wide drive bordered by austere trees. The house itself is as monolithic as Harry’s, but boasts a graphic swirl of decorative roofs and ornate stonework. There's a line of cars circling in front while guests in light colors and large hats spill out and are escorted inside.

Eggsy sticks close to Harry as a parking attendant comes over to move the car and while they’re ushered in through the house and back out a side door to a wide expanse of lawn not dissimilar to Harry’s own house. There are scattered tents set up over grouped chairs and tables laden with food. Servers wind their way through the knots of people with trays of drinks and tiny napkins. Off to the side, a group of young dandy-looking blokes have taken up playing some sort of outdoor bowling game, with a horde of birds in pale dress watching nearby.

Almost instantly, an older women in a simple but well-fitted dress greets Harry with a fond smile. “Lord Hart!” she exclaims, moving over to them, “How wonderful it is to see you. I’m so glad you were able to attend this year.”

“Lady Morton,” Harry says, leaning down to kiss her hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Eggsy tenses, unsure of what he’s supposed to do when he’s introduced. “Thank you for extending your invitation again this year. I know I’ve been rather removed as of late.”

“Oh nonsense,” she scolds with a smile. “I’m sure you’re quite busy in town.”

It sounds like an argument they’ve had before since Harry smiles. “Lady Morton, my I introduce you to Mr. Gary Unwin.” He presses his hand to Eggsy’s lower back and Eggsy feels himself flush with something between relief and embarrassment. There can be no mistaking the gesture and Eggsy sees Lady Morton’s eyes flick down to observe how close they’re standing.

Eggsy clears his throat. “Thanks for the invitation, Lady Morton.” He doesn’t think it's the best thing to say, but at least it’s polite.

She seems to be pleased, however, and she smiles at him with gracious elegance, not looking startled at his accent. “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Unwin. Have you been in the country long?”

He shakes his head before he remembers to answer in words. “No, ma’am. Just a week. We’re going back to London tomorrow.”

“I do hope Harry has shown you the best in the neighborhood. It's quite lovely this time of year after the worst of the humidity has receded.”

“He has, yeah.” Eggsy fidgets, not knowing if he should elaborate.

“Really, Alice,” Harry sighs. “You must think I’ve lost all my manners living in town.”

“Only the ones that keep you away from my dinner table,” she says. And then, to Eggsy, “May I introduce you to my daughter? If Harry here can spare you?”

Neither of them seems to have a good enough excuse, so Eggsy allows Lady Morton to maneuver him through the throngs of guests and somehow ends up looping her arm through Eggsy’s to better tell him about each person they pass.

“...and that’s the Bishop. A dreadfully boring lout of a man. Be sure to stay clear of him. Once, at a summer wedding, he carried on for over a half-hour when the bride was clearly about to pass out from the heat. Once you get him talking, it's impossible to get a word in edgewise. Oh! And just there! Do you see that man with the salmon trousers? That’s Lord Westerby. He’s quite a character. If you can sit next to him after a drink or two, he’ll tell you the story of how he quite lost his mind in Italy and proposed to the local fishmonger’s daughter. It would have been a lovely story except for the fact that she was already engaged to the local mayor. Too bad that’s the only story he has. A nice man, otherwise. He was quite fond of me during my first season…”

They lose Harry at some point along the way. Eggsy catches a last glimpse of him before they pop out of the crowd near the bowling game and a shaded section of lawn with a few scattered chairs and tiny tables.

“There she is,” Lady Morton says to Eggsy, “Oh! And the local Magician.” Then, she says louder, “Mr. MacDouglas, good morning! You slipped right past me, you wiley man!”

They come up upon a young woman lounging on a seat in a pantsuit, who looks too much like Lady Morton to be coincidence, She smiles as they approach and gestures to the bald man she is conversing with, interrupting him. Eggsy instantly recognizes him and grins when he turns around. “Oi, Merlin!” he says. “What you doing here, bruv?”

The woman laughs, a lovely sound, at Merlin’s pinched expression. “Dear Hamish! You’ve finally been called out on your ways!”

Merlin pointedly ignores her, turning his head towards Eggsy. “I’d imagine the same as you, lad,” he says gruffly. This only causes the woman to laugh again and Lady Morton to titter at Eggsy’s side.

“Mr. MacDouglas, you charmer,” Lady Morton says. He takes her hand, looking sour about it, and kisses her knuckles just like Harry had. Eggsy doesn’t see anything charming about his behavior and frowns at him.

“Of course, Lady Morton. I aim to please.”

Eggsy scoffs quietly and the young woman stands up. She extends her hand towards Eggsy with a bold thrust. “Roxanne Morton,” she says, booking no argument that her name was up for commentary. “You must be Gary Unwin. Mr. MacDouglas was just mentioning you.”

“He were what?” Eggsy snaps over at the tall man even though he’s already reaching forward to shake Roxanne’s hand. “Oi, that ain’t polite, guv.”

“I was certainly not,” Merlin says almost to himself.

Roxanne ignores him, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m very glad to meet you. Harry mentioned he was seeing you when we last spoke.”

“Lord Hart,” Roxanne’s mother corrects without sounding chastising. Somehow, she’s still lingering on Eggsy’s arm.

Eggsy doesn’t know what to say, but Roxanne either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. “Would you play a game with me, Gary?” she says, motioning over towards the bowling. “Merlin here is rarely up for a bit of sport.”

Merlin looks even more sour at that. “Maybe I would if you bothered to ask.”

“Come now,” Roxanne says. And by some unseen gesture, Merlin steps up to her, kisses her on the cheek, and then deftly plucks Lady Morton off Eggsy’s arm, leaving Eggsy a bit blown away by the speed of the encounter.

They both wander off, Lady Morton wishing them good luck over her shoulder, and Eggsy feels a bit naked standing under the weight of Roxanne’s gaze without the two human buffers he had before. He tugs on his polo agin, wishing he hadn’t worn such a dark color.

“So, you know Harry?” he asks.

She politely ignores his poor conversation skills. “As well as anyone knows a person they’ve been seeing at these types of events for fifteen years at least.”  She turns towards the lawn.

She doesn’t look like the sort of person who would want to hang off of Eggsy’s arm, so he doesn’t make the offer. Although, he thinks, his reticence hadn’t really stopped Lady Morton at all.

He does expect Roxanne to say something about him being new or looking out of place, but she doesn’t comment on his appearance on their short walk. In fact, she surprises him by bypassing the clumps of guests her own age and heading straight towards the lanes. Eggsy follows behind her lamely.

The two younger boys who are playing, each looking more put together than Eggsy ever has, give her one fleeting look before stumbling over their own feet to vacate the area. She doesn’t comment, simply resetting the pins and handing Eggsy one of the wooden balls.

“I’ll go first,” she says. Eggsy appreciates that she doesn't patronize him by asking if he knows the rules.

They take turns for a few minutes rolling the wooden balls down the lawn. She’s not very good, although Eggsy is worse, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. After each set, they pick up their own pins and make room for the other to go. They don’t keep score and their game is so dull that any onlookers who had loitered around at first soon leave for more interesting conversations.

“I can tell Harry’s quite fond of you,” she says suddenly just as Eggsy tosses his next ball. The shot stays true, though, and he knocks down three pins.

“Yeah?” he questions, trying not to sound bitter. “How you fancy that, then?”

She nods past the pins to one of the tents closer to the house. “He keeps looking over here. Perhaps he thinks I’ll talk you off him.”

Eggsy follows her gaze and sees Harry standing with two other well-dressed older men. He doesn’t seem to be listening to what they’re saying, however, and glances over to the lawn absently. After a moment, he sees Eggsy looking and a smile lights up his face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so enamored before.”

Eggsy almost jumps, Roxanne having stepped up closer to him while he was distracted. He blinks away from Harry’s distant face and turns to reset his pins.

“It’s new,” he says a bit gruffly.

“You don’t have to defend it,” Roxanne says once he’s done. She sets up her shot and knocks down all but two of the pins. “I’m very happy for him.” She turns to face Eggsy with a considering look on her face. “I was truthful when I said I’ve known Harry a long time. He’s always been a bit of an outsider. Oh, he comes to the dinners my mother throws and occasionally joins the others in a hunt. Though never with a guest.”

Eggsy flushes, gritting his teeth. “Yeah?” he says, hating how hopeful he sounds.

For the first time, Roxanne’s face loses its composed lines and relaxes into a genuine smile. “Yeah,” she echos, almost sounding a bit breathless. “I do wish you the most happiness, Gary Unwin.”

It seems an odd thing to say to someone she just met, but Eggsy can’t help smiling back. For the first time he feels truly welcomed even if he is in trainers instead of a suit. He holds out his hand again. “My friends call me Eggsy, actually.”

“Eggsy?” she asks, uncertain. And then: “Call me Roxy,” she says, grasping his palm. They shake again like they're meeting for the first time.

“Eggy, is it?” asks a deeper voice from behind him. Roxy’s face pinches as her gaze rests on whomever is over his shoulder.

He turns around, trying to set his face in a neutral expression. “It’s Gary, actually. You must have heard me wrong, mate,” he says.

“Ah,” the man says like he wasn’t really listening. He’s dressed like all the rest: a light suit without a crease to be seen. He’d be handsome if he didn’t have such a condescending look on his face. There’s two other blokes standing behind him. Lackies, Eggsy guesses, by the blank looks on their faces. “Gary. Charlie Hesketh.” Fake surprise makes his face twist. “Now I remember. Did you serve me at the McDonald’s in Winchester service station?”

“No,” Eggsy says, his fingers clenching at his sides. He grits his teeth through his sudden anger. “But if I did I’d have given you some of the secret sauce.” He lets his face slide into a leer for a brief moment.

Charlie frowns and one of the two behind him takes a step forward, his face red. Eggsy braces himself, his fists cramping with the need to hold back. He doesn’t want to do anything to embarrass Harry. Not in front of all of his posh neighbors.

Roxy all but pushes past him, her shoulder brushing against his. “Oh fuck off, Charlie,” she snaps and Eggsy feels his anger deflate at her abrupt language. She loops her arm through Eggsy’s and tugs on him. “Let’s go, Mr. Unwin. I believe your Hart is missing you.”

He relaxes under her light touch, more than happy to leave Charlie and his haughty comments behind as they make their way back across the lawn towards the clustered tents and buffets. He forces himself to look straight ahead and not back at that bunch of twats. He grinds his teeth to focus.

Roxy heads straight towards Harry, a bit of spring in her step and a placid smile plastered on her face. Harry’s still talking to the two men from earlier when they approach, but they both look between Harry and Roxy and make their excuses quickly enough. One even clasps Harry on the shoulder before departing, but Eggsy doesn’t make out what he says.

“Your timing is impeccable as always, Miss Morton,” Harry says, his face relaxing out of the tight look it had taken on. “I was just beginning to wonder if we were going to plan the next invasion of India right here on the lawn.”

Roxy releases Eggsy’s arm and shakes Harry’s hand briefly. “Really, Lord Hart. You must know my true motives lie in my own self-service.” Her shoulders relax. “I’m here to get away from that lout.”

Harry immediately looks behind her, his eyes falling on Charlie. “Shit,” he murmurs. “King must be about, then, I take it?”

“He’s over with Lady Brussels, but I saw him eye you up earlier. He looks like he’s got something on his mind.”

Eggsy looks between them, feeling left out. “Oi? Who’s this King?” He pushes away thoughts of reaching out to Harry like some needy bird and settles for giving him a scowl. “You ain’t mean… like the real King, yeah?” he says, his voice turning to a whisper as he trails off.

Roxy laughs, throwing her head back in a distinctly un-ladylike manner. “Christ, Eggsy, no. There’s no such person in England. Philip is a Prince. The closest you’ll get to the king today is Harry bloody Hart.”

Harry sighs in his rather dramatic way. “Please, Roxanne. Can we not bring that up?”

She smiles at him like they’re sharing some kind of inside joke and ignores his comment. “Perhaps you should get Eggsy something to drink, Harry. I’ll go distract King for you. He’s quite fond of me for being such a chauvinist pig.”

With that, she glides off past them and straight over to an older man with a beautific smile on her face.

Eggsy looks over at Harry, uncertain. “She was nice, yeah?”

Harry smiles at him, the edges of his eyes crinkling up. “Roxanne Morton is not to be trifled with. I’m glad that you met.” He leans over closer to Eggsy, placing a hand on his lower back and guiding him towards the tents. “I’ve known her for as long as she could sit at a dinner table.”

Eggsy considers that for a minute. “Not since in nappies then?”

“No,” Harry says, chuckling. “I don’t think I could say that about anyone. My nanny wouldn’t have let me in sight of my parents in such a state, and my governess was of the traditional sort.”

“Ain’t nothing normal about that, Haz.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harry says so quietly that Eggsy almost doesn't hear him. Then, louder he says, “Can I fetch you a plate?”

“Yeah, sure,” Eggsy says to cover his gut reaction. Of course Harry didn’t grow up the way he did. Not like Harry needs another reminder about how different they really are. He pushes the feeling away.

He doesn’t really know how long to expect the party to go on for. Everyone looks content to stand around and talk for days with their delicate flutes of champagne and tiny plates of cake. Eggsy wonders if Harry would prefer to go off and talk with the men his own age instead of babysitting Eggsy. He doesn't ask though, not wanting to really know the answer. Instead he busies himself with the light alcohol and sweet desserts. Harry doesn’t disappoint in that, never being empty handed more than a moment before finding a new drink to hold.

They end up talking with a few different people, and Eggsy does get to hear the story of Lord Westerby’s Italian fiancee from the man himself before Harry manages to extract them both from the conversation. They get a few odd looks throughout the bright morning and more than a few raised eyebrows, but no one says anything rude to their faces, even though Eggsy knows they’re gossiping with their conversation partners as soon as their backs are turned.

They look ridiculous together, Eggsy knows. What with Eggsy’s too-tight polo and Harry’s twenty years on him. It’d almost be better if Eggsy were here a real rentboy instead of something too-far on the side of a serious relationship.

And fuck. If Harry’s bringing him around and introducing him to this bunch, then they must be doing something serious. Eggsy’s gut rolls as the idea; his breath catching in his throat. This isn’t just eating jammie dodgers at the park or even waking up to a blowie when Eggsy’s got a late shift. This is something Eggsy doesn’t know anything about. This is something, for the first time, that Eggsy thinks he might be able to have all for himself.

“Harry,” he says, interrupting whatever the other man was saying, now that they’re away from any other guests. He knows it's rude, but he doesn’t care in the moment. “What’s going on with this?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “I apologize, Eggsy, I’m not entirely sure as to what you are referring.”

Eggsy grits his teeth and forces his eyes away from the ground and to Harry’s face. It's a sight he’s come to know too well over the past few months: where the lines from stress melt away when Harry’s sleeping or how the corners of his mouth twitch when he wants to laugh but thinks it might be impolite. How satisfaction looks, in the gleam of his expression, after he’s brought Eggsy over the edge of orgasm. How his cheeks flare red after phone calls when he never raises his voice, but his frustration is etched into every word of the conversation.

Eggsy hadn’t realized how well he knew that face until now. How much he might miss it.

“This, yeah? Between you and me,” he says, almost choking on his words. Eggsy glances around, but no one looks like they’re listening in on their conversation. “Are we… together?”

His face softening, Harry’s one empty hand finds the side of Eggsy’s neck and he strokes his thumb down along the top of Eggsy’s collar bone through the neck of his polo. “Oh my dear,” he says for only Eggsy’s ears, leaning in close, “I wouldn’t let you go for a kingdom.”

Eggsy swallows, feeling his throat bob underneath Harry’s hand. “Yeah,” he says, a bit breathless. “I ain’t asking for kingdom.”

Harry smiles. “Perhaps just breakfast in bed then?”

Eggsy sighs, pushing back his cap and stepping closer. He ignores the press of the tiny plate in Harry’s hand as it presses against both of their chests. “Sounds fucking perfect, Haz.”


	4. Now; Again, part I

Harry should have known better than to make such a promise.

Eggsy finds out quick enough that the Tube is shut down. There are two guards posted at the top of the stairs pointing people away with a firm gesture in the opposite direction. Patrol cars are lined up, one behind each other in a long line, their engines rumbling and their lights flashing. Coppers stand outside them in tense groups while their radios crackle with garbled messages. Eggsy doesn’t even get close enough for them to glance in his direction. He spins around with his hands in his jean pockets before they can catch sight of his face.

There aren’t any cabs out, and he couldn’t afford one anyways, so he starts walking. His phone chimes in his pocket. Four texts, all from Roxy. Course she would know.

London’s never been so still. All the normal sounds of people arguing on phones and honking at wayward pedestrians are muted and dull. There aren’t any hawkers outside the hospital selling flowers. No children clustered around looking at their phones on street corners. No cars screeching through traffic lights with music blaring from the open windows.

People scuttle through the streets under umbrellas and with their hoods drawn up. Mothers clutch their children close to their bodies as they shepherd them from cars and shops and down the pavement. Businessmen stand on the corners, their phones held limply in their hands and their faces blank and confused. They pull up the collars of their light autumn coats as if a blizzard might start up at any moment.

Eggsy hurries past it all, his trainers slapping too loudly against the pavement, his head bowed.

His mom’s crying in front of the television when he unlocks the front door and stumbles in. She’s on her knees, Daisy on her stomach nearby, with a ragged handful of tissues and her makeup blotted and smeared.

“Oh, Eggsy,” she says when she sees him, her lip trembling. “Have you seen? It's terrible. Just awful.”

The apartment looks like it always does: rubbish overflowing in the corner. Dishes are piled up in the sink and along the tiny bit of counter space. There’s a stack of biscuit sleeves piled up next to a paper weeks old on the coffee table, and bottles from the previous night spill out on the floor and along the side tables. The florescent light in the kitchen flickers.

He stays leaning against the front door, his hands wrapped around the handle behind him as his knees wobble. “Yeah, mum. I saw,” he says.

She nods at him and turns back to the news, sniffling into her tissues. “They was such a beautiful family. Right proper English and that. I can’t even… I can’t even understand.” She shakes her head, her eyes wide and watery. “Those poor little children.”

Suddenly, without the methodical rhythm of his legs to distract him, the morning rolls over him in a hot flash of nausea.

Eggsy’s knees buckle and he sags to the floor, reaching out to grab at the handle of the fridge to stop himself from falling. He pulls himself up, but his mother hadn’t noticed.

A wave of nausea gurgles up from his stomach and he chokes. His gut clenches and his eyes burn with sudden tears. In a burst of adrenaline, he staggers to the sink before vomiting up a thick string of yellow bile. It chokes him, sticks in his throat, and his body clenches again. Coughing, he gags and spits, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain in his throat. The hot and sour stench makes him heave again and he blindly twists at the tap to start the water running. It gushes over the dried bits of food and the puddles of sick in a cold spray.

“Eggsy?” his mother says, “you alright, luv?”

He holds his mouth under the tap and spits out a mouthful of water. His heart hammers in his chest and he’s all but holding himself up by leaning on the counter. Tears prick again at the corners of his eyes so he stuffs his face under the stream of water before swishing another mouthful around again and spitting it out. His stomach clenches.

“Eggsy?”

“‘M fine, mum. Fine,” he manages to mumble.

Daisy gurgles over the sound of rushing water and he closes his eyes. He can hear the news broadcast loud and clear over his mother’s shushing. _...period of mourning for the country. The Palace has not yet released any information. Of course, despite having contingency plans for such an event, the details are..._

Eggsy turns off the tap and heads for his room. His mum doesn’t look away from the telly as he passes and he catches a glimpse of hordes of people outside Buckingham Palace holding candles and flowers.

He slams his door shut against the sound of their grief and tumbles into the bed. It creaks under his weight, smelling of unwashed sheets and weed. He wrinkles his nose and can’t remember the last time he slept there. There’s still bile burning in the back of his throat. His hands fist uselessly in the bed.

It doesn’t even feel like his room anymore; he’s been gone so long. The walls are too dirty. The carpet matted and worn. The entire flat smells like cigarettes and something even more vile.

He’s grown too used to Harry’s fresh sheets and morning coffee. The soft warmth of the fire and glass of bourbon. The feel of someone at his back in the deepest part of the night.

Eggsy rolls over. “Fuck,” he mutters into the hard mattress. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He rubs his face in the blanket to soak up his hot tears and pulls the mess of bedding up over his body. Shivering, he chokes on the bubble of grief building behind his tongue. Salty tears wet the sheets under his face and crust on his dry lips.

The murmur of the television fills the flat with a dull white noise. Every now and then, someone speaks clearly enough for Eggsy to understand a word or two. And sometimes the shrill sound of a siren from the news footage pierces through his thin bedroom door. He doesn’t hear. Not really.

He stuffs his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. The sound of his own harsh breath muffled by the blankets sounds like a scream. Harry’s button up bulges and pulls in odd ways under his polo, but he doesn’t bother to make himself more comfortable.

Eventually, the sound of the television dims and the light coming in from the gritty window fades. His stomach clenches in hunger. The front door slams and Dean’s hated voice orders his mum about in the kitchen. Daisy cries. The television comes back on and Dean curses about his shows being canceled.

When the light under his door turns to darkness and the murmurs from the room next door fade into silence, Eggsy shucks off his shoes and wiggles out of his jeans. Under the blankets, he pulls his polo over his head and throws it off onto the floor. The medal lies heavy against his chest. He wraps his hand around it and stares into the darkness.

****

There’s no work the next day. Ms. Suzzie calls him early in the morning and, in a warbling voice, tells him that they’ll be closed and she’ll call again when they’re ready to open up. He thinks briefly about the rows of dresses and suits hanging up, waiting to be cleaned or sent back to their owners. He suddenly can’t remember if Harry has a suit waiting. Will he be needing it back with all the meetings he’ll need to go to?

Eggsy sits up in the bed, a wave of adrenaline cresting over him, until he remembers that Harry would hardly need to stop off in Eggsy’s neighborhood just to pick up some old suit. Not like it’ll be something he’ll ever need to do again.

He flops back down under the ratty blanket and pulls it up over his head. In the dim morning light, he can just make out the buttons of the shirt. He runs his fingers around each one before popping them out of their holes so he can shrug the shirt off over his shoulders. It’d be easier if he sat up and did it properly, but he doesn’t feel like it. He struggles with it, trying to get it over his shoulders without tearing any seams. And finally, with a huff, he raises the shirt to his face and buries his nose in the warm folds. It smells less like the last whiffs of Harry’s soap and more like Eggsy’s own sweat from his long walk and restless night.

He crumples it into a tight ball and jams it between his cheek and the pillow.

His mum calls him out near dinner time. Dean’s gone, but the flat is anything but silent with the telly up loud and Daisy whimpering from her spot in the playpen. Eggsy leans over the edge to give her a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smells like the fake strawberry shampoo from the discount bin at Tesco’s and he breathes it in deep.

His mum’s face is still ruddy and swollen from a night spent crying, but she brightens up when she sees him, her eyes watery. “Well look at you. Finally come round to see your old mum, then?’

Eggsy nods and shuffles over to her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I ain’t been avoiding you,” he says.

She turns back to the microwave to watch the number count down on some frozen casserole. “No, just too busy with some bird or another.”

Eggsy sits down at the tiny table to avoid answering. His mum continues: “Guess she’ll be with her family after yesterday. You off work today?”

“Yeah, they’re closed. Not sure when I’m supposed to go back.”

She shrugs, looking for plates in the overhead shelves that are clean. She pulls down two paper ones and a small bowl for Daisy’s portion. “You’ll be missing out on some pay. And that’s not fair.”

Eggsy scratches at the grooves in the table. “‘s fine. Not really feeling it anyway.”

They pull Daisy up to the table on a chair stacked with old newspapers and eat with only the nightly news as background.

_...currently with the Queen. In an unprecedented press release, the Crown will continue on with this course of action. Of course, in this time of turmoil, the citizens need to look forward to the future. To the future of the Commonwealth. Many are asking, ‘What can we expect to see?’_

Eggsy clambers to his feet with the scrape of his chair and drops his paper plate in the full bin when he’s done. “I’m going out, yeah?”

Ms. Parker’s offy is shut up – maybe she never even opened at all – when Eggsy tries the door. Thankfully, the newspaper stand outside works just fine. He rummages in his hoodie pocket for a few coins and jams them into the slot.

A copper rounds the corner in a patrol car, its lights off and moving slow. Eggsy turns his back and rucks up his shoulders as he waits for the lock to disengage. A torch shines on the wall behind him for a hesitant moment. He relaxes when they ignore him and continue on down the street. He grabs the paper, tucks it under his hoodie, and hurries back towards The Black Prince to get out of the cold night.

Even there, the regulars mull over their pints and stare at the lone telly perched over the bar. The normal music is gone, replaced by the somber tone of the newscaster, and interspersed with clips of press conferences and scenes from outside Buckingham Palace.

Dean and his lot are nowhere to be seen, so Eggsy heads towards the back of the pub and the waiting booths. He can’t see the news from his spot, but he can hear the announcement about the ongoing investigation of Richard Valentine’s involvement in the global attack. Eggsy ignores the lot of it; too busy paging through his paper.

He studiously ignores the front page featuring Harry’s picture next to that of the royal family.

His phone chimes with messages from Roxy. He ignores her, unable to think of a response that doesn’t sound pitiful.

Because that’s what he is. Pitiful. Not the sort of person fit for a King.

He gets in late that night and leaves again the next morning. His feet take him to walk along the Thames. It's odd to see the deserted streets that are normally teeming with businessmen and tourists alike. But the businesses are all still closed, and the tourists are probably shut up in their hotels. There isn’t much to look at other than the waiting pigeons and a few tenacious runners.

He goes back to work two days later as the city starts to wake up again. There’s more on the news about celebrities and the newest trends. One of the morning show hosts makes a pun about the weather and no one winces. Then there’s a flashed picture of Harry on the screen, and Eggsy shuts off the television before he can hear anything else.

He goes to his room for the rest of the day and ignores Dean when he bursts through the front door swearing about the increased patrols. Eggsy takes out his newspaper and irons the front page on his bed with his hand until it gets too dark to see.

Two days later, his phone buzzes with a text from Harry while he’s on the floor playing hand games with Daisy. He reads it without meaning to when it pops up on his lock screen and immediately sucks in a harsh breath of air and misses his next line of the song. “Shit,” he says to himself and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

Daisy babbles something only she understands and Eggsy’s face relaxes out of a scowl. “Can you believe it, Daiz?” he says, gently slapping her tiny hands together when she holds them up.

She screams with delight and bounces up and down on her butt, her thick legs squirming. He laughs, leaning forward to bury his face in her warm stomach and blow a raspberry into her baby fat. He closes his eyes, breathing in her warmth and powdery skin, and sighs.

“Your old brother’s a bit of stupid,” he says, mumbling into her side. “Going and getting attached to some bloke who’s worlds above him. Stupid boy, he is.”

She giggles, happy to have his attention and not understanding his words.

His phone buzzes with Roxy’s number. He glances at the screen but doesn’t pick up.

At work, he focuses on taking apart a faulty dryer and repairing the motor. It's time consuming and filthy work. A decade of lint and dirt jammed into every crevice and gear. The ports are all clogged and rusted so he needs to break it down screw by bolt and give the nasty thing a scouring before putting it all back together. While he’s at it, he cleans in the space the dryer took up in the row and comes out dirtier than the time he fell, in a drunken stupor, onto the Tube tracks.

Somehow, the repairs leave him wrung out and exhausted, and he’s grateful to fall asleep within moments of lying down each night. That way, he doesn’t have time to ruminate over the disjointed texts he’s received and ignored on his phone.

He doesn’t have the courage to block the number though; and, like a fool, he reads them during his lunch break, lingering on every word.

He can almost hear Harry’s voice enunciating each message in that tilted and smooth way of his. All polite and crisp edges filled with a teasing warmth. They come every few days or so, with no pattern or regularity.

_Are you at home?_ Harry says.

_You should know that you’re welcome to stay there even without me. After all, it's very much your home as well. I don’t think we ever talked about that. We should have._

_There’s many things I should have said. I regret those secrets now._

_Eggsy? Are you there?_

_I hope you’re doing well. I haven’t heard anything from you._

_This house is quite large, and I’m not supposed to leave my coffee cups on the tables without a coaster. It's all terribly fussy._

_Are you still working? I would assume that most of the city is back up and running by now. I would love to stop by after your shift ends so we could share a pint. The weather’s been holding enough that a stroll down to our chip stand would be wonderful. I think that special vinegar they have might be my favorite. And yes, I’m aware that that’s_

_Shit. What am I saying._

_Eggsy, my darling._

_Please. I need to hear from you._

One night, Dean’s out at the Prince, so Eggsy and his mum eat in front of the telly, watching posh folks agonize over buying a house that’s almost as big as Harry’s estate out in the country, but with half the amount of class. It makes him think of lying out next to Harry on the grass his first day there, talking about Harry’s mum and dad.

Why hadn’t Harry said anything then? Eggsy mood turns bitter at the thought and he has to push them away.

He curls his feet up underneath him on the lumpy sofa and tucks his chin into the lip of his zip-up as his eyes glaze over. The couple on the show go outside to survey the garden behind the house. It's a sprawling expanse of cut grass and careful, mulched landscaping. Directly the opposite of Harry’s messy little garden behind the London house.

Eggsy fingers fold around his phone in his hoodie pocket, and he can almost see Harry’s last text to him.

_Please. I need to hear from you._

His thumbs are on the screen before his rational mind can catch up. It’s stupid and almost petty, but it’s all he can manage. _I’m fine. I don’t got a key._

On the telly, the couple complains about the long commute they’ll have into London, and Eggsy lets his phone fall to his lap. His mum looks over at him around a mouthful of ice cream. “Alright, luv?” she asks. Daisy’s been quiet all night, content to sit in her crib and hold her soft toys. Eggsy feels wistful, jealous of her simple joy.

He almost expects a text back right away, but nothing comes through. “I’m fine, mum,” he says, and turns back to the telly. He refuses to acknowledge the harsh stab of disappointment when he goes to sleep without any messages.

He shouldn’t feel anything. He’s the one who’s been ignoring Harry.

In the morning, he finds out why:

The Queen is dead.

Long live the King.

 

****

Eggsy makes a point to leave the flat whenever Dean’s home and doing anything but sleeping. He gets up early, gets Daisy dressed for the day like he used to, and heads out as soon as his mum’s out of bed.

The laundrette closes again for a week after the announcement, but Eggsy goes in anyways, determined to give the place a thorough cleaning. It gives him something to do. And better yet, it gives him somewhere to go.

He catches up with his mates occasionally in the local parks. The pubs are all closed so they play of bit of casual footie while everyone else stands in nervous groups, looking about anxiously as if the Queen herself was going to come back and berate them from enjoying a day out in the wake of her death.

Somehow, the atmosphere seems less dreary than it had felt after the global attack by Valentine. Almost as if people had become used to the constant news of death and couldn’t be bothered as much to stay in mourning.

The groceries are open within a day, restaurants within the week, and The Black Prince is back up and pouring pints a few days later. Thankfully, that means Dean’s back out of the house again, sitting in his usual booth, and Eggsy can spend more time with Daisy on the floor of their dingy living room.

He goes back to work officially just twelve days after the announcement. Then, a few days later, a man drops an envelope at the laundrette with Eggsy’s name on the front and a key inside.

He goes to Harry’s house and lets himself in the next week after he can’t resist any longer. He tells himself it's to make Harry feel better, but it's really for himself. He’s too weak to stay away.

He refuses to sleep upstairs in Harry’s bed, but he still stays the night more often than not. It doesn’t make much sense, really. He has to take two trains to get to the laundrette, which means he has to get up earlier and is always out later than he wants. Compared to his mum’s dirty flat, the house feels sterile and cavernous without Harry there. But the electricity is still on, and the cleaning lady still comes around on Wednesday afternoons, so he stays.

Eggsy catches himself turning to look over his shoulder at the sink while doing dishes to tell Harry something funny he’d heard at work. Or he wakes in the morning to the imagined smell of Harry’s conditioner.

The house creaks with footsteps in the upstairs hall and the back door slams shut in the evening like someone is coming in from pruning the garden. Eggsy lines up his shoes in the foyer with enough room for another, larger pair. He hangs his jacket on the lower peg and always leaves space for a long woolen coat right nearby. He leaves the dishes to drip-dry on the rack since there isn’t anyone to towel them off with him. He wants to tell Harry it’s his turn to take out the garbage.

Eggsy knows that if he goes upstairs to Harry’s room, he’ll wake up reaching for him in the morning. That he’ll miss those kisses on his shoulder when the sun peeks in through the curtains. That he’ll roll over and say something he regrets when the bed’s empty and cold next to him.

So the old couch is comfortable enough.

There’s a bulge in the sofa frame that digs into his back and the thin sheet he pilfers from the guest room smells a bit like dust and too many winters without a wash. He buries his face into the sagging cushions anyways and ignores the way his feet hang over the side.

He keeps the front curtains closed and the room dark. He doesn’t go upstairs to the office. He doesn’t use the deep tub in the ensuite that Harry hates. He doesn’t even look at the staircase.

Ryan had called him a masochist once after he’d goaded Dean into slapping him across the face. It’d hurt like scraping his palm off rough concrete after missing a jump to the next ledge, and he’d sported a red welt under his eye for a week afterwards. “Christ, Eggsy,” Ryan had said after he’d tipped Eggsy’s head to the side and smeared some petroleum jelly across his face. “The fuck’s your problem, mate?”

And now, after nights of burnt toast and shitty pan-fried chicken, Eggsy thinks Ryan might be right. He’d probably been right since the first moment Harry Hart stumbled into the laundrette, and Eggsy decided to step out of his station and tempt his own downfall.

So Eggsy lets Merlin in through the back gate again when he texts. _I’m coming over. Expect me within the hour._ As usual, he leaves little room for argument.

“I see you’ve managed to dress yourself this time at least,” the man says in his gruff manner. “I’ll thank you to keep your knicker brands to yourself from now on.”

Eggsy scowls at him and locks the gate in the back garden before they head in. “Would’ve thought you had a thing for twinks with that bald Daddy look you’ve got.” He tugs on his shirt to pull it straight.

“My only interest in ‘twinks’ as you say is to make sure they don’t starve themselves pining over their own stupid, middle aged Daddies. I’m glad to see you’re still meeting all of my very low expectations.”

Merlin settles in at the dining table, and Eggsy puts on a kettle. Harry would appreciate Eggsy playing polite with an old friend. He frowns at the stove until the kettle shrieks and then decides to forgo asking the bald man what he likes with his drink.

Merlin raises an eyebrow at the tall water glass full of hot tea but doesn’t pursue the matter. They sip to the sound of birds chirping outside in the garden.

“There’s a press conference on this afternoon,” Merlin says.

Eggsy frowns at his drink. “Yeah? What of it?”

“Want to watch?”

Eggsy’s gut clenches as Merlin turns on the television, settles on the appropriate chanel, and they move to sit side by side on the couch. Merlin blessedly doesn’t mention the pile of blankets thrown on the floor or the smashed sofa pillow covered in yesterday’s shirt. He regards the mess with one raised eyebrow and only clears a space for them to sit and adjusts his glasses.

“Fuck off,” Eggsy mumbles under his breath. He sits close enough to Merlin that their knees bump and he can inhale the fresh scent of his detergent.

“He don’t look happy,” Eggsy says as the flash of cameras light up the fancy room on the screen. Harry enters with a retinue of men in black suits through a side door. His profile is framed with ornate moldings and neutral colors; they make his face look pale and drawn despite the confident expression on his lips.

The reporters, for all the clicking of shutters, keep their questions to themselves as the lot settles into chairs and sip at glasses of water in the lull.

Merlin scoffs. “Of course not, lad. No one could be ready for this.”

Harry doesn’t say much in the end, even if Eggsy waits with his breath stuck in his throat to hear his voice. Instead, one of the suits says a few fancy words about _Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the 2nd had died in her sleep at ...and gave orders for proclaiming His present Majesty. Whereas it has pleased Almighty God to call to His Mercy ... ….and of all His other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith...beseeching God by whom Kings and Queens do reign…_

Merlin stands up to rummage around in Harry’s kitchen, and Eggsy gratefully accepts the glass of golden alcohol when Merlin presses it into his hand.

The questions have started, each reporter standing and taking their time with the microphone. The suits have answers for most of them, and Harry only speaks a few times to offer non-committal answers about his readiness for the position and his grief about the death of the Queen now that he’s had time to mourn. His answers lack his usual smile and relaxed cadence; the way he normally crosses his legs and leans back into his chair when he’s pleased.

_And how are you settling into the residence?_ asks one reporter; a smiling man with a black armband.

Harry offers him his own polite smile; clearly having prepared for such a thing. _It's quite larger than my home in London, he says, Much more reminiscent of my family home in the Cotswolds._

Eggsy glances around him at what’s leftover of Harry’s home. There are still books piled up by the armchair; pictures standing up on the mantle and sitting on the sideboard filled with Harry’s familiar face. A few scattered bits of everyday living like newspaper ads and coffee mugs that Eggsy can’t imagine being spread out in the sitting room of Buckingham.

And then there’s Eggsy himself: a chav from across town with knock-off caps and beaten trainers. Somebody who didn’t go to school and who works at a cleaners for pennies. Someone who is too stupid and gone to know when to let go.

_And do you miss it, Your Majesty? Your London home?_

The televised caricature of Harry seems to swallow down his kingly answer and says, _Yes, I do miss it. Very much so_.

“I thought they passed a law,” Eggsy says, sullenly rubbing his face into his glass, “that blokes like me could see whoever they want.”

“They did. For blokes like you,” Merlin says over the low murmur of the next reporter’s question. They’d moved back to talking about dates and titles and everything else Eggsy doesn’t know anything about. He’s heard a lot of things he doesn’t know anything about recently. Ever since meeting Harry. “But not for blokes like him.”

Eggsy scowls, offended. “He ain’t much different. A bit of a posh wanker, yeah, but not better than me.”

Merlin chuckles low in the back of his throat and says, “No, he’s not, our Harry. But that’s not how the press will see him. Or the public or even his neighbor who’s known him for the last fifteen years. Now he’s something else. He is better than us. He has to be.”

The bit of ice in Eggsy’s drink cracks as he stares down into it.

“He’s now the official head of the Church. It's not just a political position, the monarchy. It hasn’t been in a long time. And it isn’t all about religion either. It’s something beyond that; something intangible and spectacular. Only a century ago, the King would have been the mouth piece for the citizens of a fourth of the entire world. They would have looked to him for guidance. To be strong in the face of tragedy and to rally under the banner of hope. Many great Kings and Queens rose to that challenge–”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, bruv,” Eggsy says, interrupting.

Merlin sighs. “My point is, lad, that Harry can’t just date anyone he chooses anymore. The fact that he got away with it before all of this is a miracle in itself.”

“And then it all went tits up,” Eggsy says. It seems everything goes tits up eventually.

Another reporter stands to take the mic on the telly. _Do you have a date for the Coronation, sir?_

_It will be announced in good time,_ says another suit. _No further questions, please._

“He asked me to bring you something,” Merlin says as they watch Harry and his retinue file back out through a side door to a swell of flash photography. Eggsy strains his eyes for one last glimpse of his broad shoulders. He wonders if someone like Roxanne Morton gets to send Harry condolences. Or if she even gets to see him in person and- a knife twists in his heart, and he drags his mind back to the conversation.

“Yeah?” Eggsy asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. Fucking pathetic, he is.

“It’s a letter. You know how old fashioned he can be. I have it here.” Merlin stands and switches off the television before pulling out a white envelope from his briefcase and laying it on the dining room table. “Read it soon, for his sake, lad. And for your own.”

He looks back towards Eggsy one last time before letting himself out of the house through the back door. As soon as the it slams shut, Eggsy reaches for the medal under his shirt and closes his eyes. He thinks about the mass of messages in his phone. The ones he'd ignored out of some petty spite.

“Or maybe because I’m a fucking coward,” he says out loud to the empty room.

It takes him three more days to even pick up the letter. By then, he’s gone to two shifts at the laundrette, has eaten exactly five cheese and ham sandwiches, and has fallen asleep to the nightly news once. That night, he drops a take-away bag on the dining table carelessly enough that his curry spills onto the bleached, lace tablecloth and puddles out in an enormous mess. He snatches up the envelope before it can be ruined, but the tablecloth is a lost cause.

He relocates the envelope to the mantle and props it up against a browned photo of Harry’s father, only to move it to his hoodie pocket the next morning when he’s getting ready for work.

That night, his mum calls him. He answers, lying in the dark on the couch in Harry’s living room. “Yeah, mum?”

“Eggsy, babe,” she says over the sound of Daisy crying in the background. “Where’ve you got to? Dean’s been asking about you. You should come back round the flat.”

Eggsy closes his eyes and sighs. “‘m sorry, mum. I’ve been taking care of some things, yeah? I’ll come ‘round sometime soon.”

“Good, good,” she says, clearly distracted. He feels a rush of guilt for leaving her with the baby and no help for so long. He promises to pick up some vegetables on the way back so they can have a proper Sunday dinner just once. When they hang up, he drops his phone on his chest and closes his eyes against the darkness.

The next morning, he gets up when his alarm goes off and stumbles out of the house towards the Tube with the letter still squashed in his hoodie. The telly is on when he unlocks the door at his mum’s flat, and he can hear the faint sound of the shower running from the bathroom. He drops his carrier bags on the kitchen floor.

Daisy, alone in her playpen with only a dummy, squeals with excitement. He picks her up with a grin and spins her around. “My days!” he croons, rubbing her cheeks with his nose. “Aren’t you just what I need.” She sits, happy and smiling, on his hip as he heats her up some mushy cereal and helps her steady her spoon as she smears it around her mouth.

When his mum comes out of the bathroom in a towel followed by a billow of steam, she jumps in surprise. “Eggsy! Luv, you scared me.”

“I ain't been gone long, mum. Dean ain’t turned my room out has he?” He tries not to sound bitter, but it comes out as sarcastic anyways.

Daisy babbles at him, and he helps her with another spoonful of cereal.

“Dean wouldn't do that, Eggsy. He takes care of us.” She frowns for a moment, but then perks up. “You still staying long enough for a proper Sunday dinner?”

He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “Yeah, sure.”

They have chicken that night, just Eggsy, his mum, and Daisy. She doesn’t mention that Eggsy barely says a word and only purses her lips when he washes his dish and heads into his room afterwards.

The last of the setting sun seeps in through the dingy windows in a haze of purple light. Eggsy sits down on his bed and rummages around for Harry’s letter in his pocket. It’s yellow by now from days of soaking in his hands, and crumpled like he rolled it up in a ball. His name is on the front in Harry’s horrible handwriting. The paper is thick; almost like it’s more fabric than anything else.

“Shit,” he says out loud in a faint whisper. “Shit. Shit.”

_I must speak to you by any means I posses. My heart lies fractured by your absence. I can admit that I am not strong enough to weather this storm alone. I need your guidance; your gaiety and your agency. Please do not tell me that I will not see you again. I was wrong to leave when I did. I regret my actions with every moment that my messages go unanswered. I can barely speak my mind. God knows if I am a man meriting your attention, but I beg of it anyways._

_My love is not one that bends but a word from you will silence me forever._

The sun disappears fully over the line of the buildings outside. Eggsy’s hand trembles, the letter crushed in his tight fist. He can barely see the words. The letters and spaces blur together in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter from Harry in this chapter is highly inspired by Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne in Jane Austen's Persuasion. I hold no illusions about my ability to be romantic without help. ;)


	5. Now; Again, part II

Merlin comes to the laundrette the day after. “I got your text,” is all he says. They sit down next to each other in two of the plastic, sculpted chairs that face the dryers. It's the middle of the day, so the pensioners have already left, and the mums haven’t come in yet. There’s only Ms. Potter and her basket of knitting on the other side of the row.

Eggsy kicks at the linoleum floor. “Yeah, good.”

“All the information you’ll need is contained within this envelope. Make sure that you follow the instructions fully. This isn’t a game, Eggsy. These men take their job seriously.” Merlin passes over a thick manilla folder tied with a familiar ribbon.

“I know, yeah?” Eggsy snaps and instantly feels like an arse. It's not Merlin’s fault. “Sorry, guv.” He looks down at his trainers again.

He suddenly has to confess, the words bubbling up over his tongue before he can swallow them down again. “I’ve got no idea what I’m doing,” he blurts out, instantly clenching his jaw to cover his own embarrassment. His face turns hard.

Merlin frowns. “I doubt anyone would be prepared for this, Eggsy.”

Eggsy shrugs like he’s trying to blow his own inadequacies off. “Harry was. I’ve been reading the paper. Everybody loves him.”

“Lad,” Merlin says sighing and crossing his legs, “I don’t know what Harry told you in that letter, but he’s the exact opposite of prepared. Everything you see on the news is all a sham. A show. Meant to look good for the audience. Harry doesn’t have any more clue what he’s doing than you would.”

Eggsy considers that while thumbing at the edge of the folder. “You see him a lot?” he asks, looking over at Merlin.

“Not as much as before. We were good friends… well. It was a while ago. Now I only assist him with the running of his family estate. His other matters of business are for more qualified minds then my own.”

“He talked about you a lot,” Eggsy says quietly. He’s not sure how much Merlin wants to hear. “Told me about when you were kids. You’re still his friend, bruv.”

Merlin’s face mellows out of its regular harsh and judgemental expression. “Thank you, Eggsy,” he says over the bumping of Ms. Potter’s load in the washing machine.

They sit together until the door chimes with a new customer. Merlin stands, straightening his cardigan and glasses, and gathers his briefcase. “Eggsy,” he says “May I remind you that you hold the cards. No one else can decide but you.”

Eggsy frowns and thinks of Harry’s face highlighted in the light from the telly the morning after the bombing. “I have to meet him, Merlin. I owe him that.”

Merlin nods. “Roxy asked about you,” he says, looking pensive,

“Yeah?” Eggsy says, managing a smile. “She’s a right mate.”

Merlin nods. “I’ll tell her you’re doing well, then,” he says. They both know it’s a lie.

Then he leaves. The door jingles as it closes behind him.

Customers trickle in and out throughout the day, so Eggsy has plenty of time to read through Merlin’s envelope. With every word, his heart pounds with increased vehemence until his palms are sweating and he’s grinding his teeth.

Merlin was right, the instructions are detailed. That night, when he gets home to Harry’s house, he calls the number in the document before he can think of an excuse to run from it. As the phone rings, he’s reminded of the time he called the number on the back of his dad’s medal. He feels much the same; the weight of the importance of his actions hanging over him. Trying to get it right after a lifetime of fucking up. The knowledge that he’ll lose this one chance forever.

Merlin doesn’t pick up this time, though. Instead, it’s a woman with a crisp accent and polite customer service who seems to know exactly what he’s talking about despite his fumbling words and cut-off explanations. She sets a time for him, careful of his work schedule, which is more than he expected, and tells him to expect a car to escort him in.

When he hangs up, Eggsy tosses the phone into the cushions and pulls the blanket up over his head since there’s no one else to see.

 

****

He’s got a few days so he spends his time alternately picking out polos and discarding them for something better. He hadn’t realised that he’d left so many clothes at Harry’s until he covers the bed in a heap so large that it topples off the side to land on the soft carpet. Eventually, he settles on a black classic with gold details at the collar and a pair of jeans. He doesn’t own anything else. Thankfully, the booklet doesn’t say anything about proper ties or oxfords.

He has to go into Harry’s bedroom for the first time since he’d left. Consciously, he only lets his gaze wonder towards Harry’s neat rows of suits and his stack of reading only once. He keeps focused on his task instead, taking care to fold all of his cast-offs and bring them back downstairs to the living room.

The woman who made the appointment said that an evening meeting was preferred, so Eggsy spends the entire morning and afternoon running a hand through his hair, swearing and trying to lay it back down. He sits on the edge of the couch, absently flipping through channels, and rubs at the spots on his best trainers.

The men who show up at twilight are tall and broad shouldered like Harry, but lack his finesse and perfectly tailored suits. They escort him out of the townhouse and into the chilly November air with only a few words of direction. A woman holds open the high door of the SUV for him, a calm smile on her face and her hair done up in a perfect twist. She introduces herself as Rodriguez and offers him a beverage once they’re both settle in.

He declines, his hands a sweaty mess in his lap.

The ride doesn't take more than a half-hour until they’re gliding past the Buckingham Palace main gates. They’re covered in flowers and wreaths, even so many weeks later, with framed photos of the late Queen dotting the surface of the collected garden. There are a few mourners outside with tiny candles cupped in their hands and wet faces. There are extra guards posted, looking tall and untouchable in the dim light.

Eggsy has to look away, feeling nothing but anger at the scene.

He wonders what Harry thinks of it all. Is he just as furious that she would die and leave him with such a fate? What does he feel about Richmond Valentine, who put them both in this situation in the first place for some cocked up plan to save the earth from the destruction of humanity?

He bites his lip to distract himself and stares down at this lap until he feels Rodriguez looking at him.

By the time they enter in through a rear, much more utilitarian gate, Eggsy doesn’t feel much more charitable, just angry and frustrated. The building rises up around the vehicle as they turn into a smaller courtyard. It’s beautiful, Eggsy is sure, in the last evening light of the day. He tries to focus on the decorative windows or the luscious planters, but he can’t even make them out over the rush of blood in his ears. The further they creep past walls and gates at a crawling speed, the more caged he feels.

Why did he agree to come here? What good would possibly come from being paraded through fancy hallways like a dog on a leash? Everyone watching him to make sure he doesn’t step out of line. Make sure he doesn’t sully the carpet with his off-brand trainers.

Rodriguez breaks into his thoughts by climbing out of the vehicle. Eggsy realizes belatedly that they’ve come to a stop.

The security team opens his door before he can get to it, ushering him out of the SUV and in through a stately door as quickly as possible. He doesn’t have more than a moment to adjust his face into a blank mask before they’re leading him down a utilitarian hallway and through a series of storerooms and out into a massive kitchen.

He supposes that when it comes down to it, all kitchens really look the same. They’ve certainly got a bigger hob than his mum, and even bigger than the one at Harry’s house in the country, but it still heats water with a gas flame and has doors to put a roast in. Pots hang from racks on the ceiling in neat lines and rows of shelves exhibit giant containers of spices. Clearly, they’d had curry for dinner as the smell of cumin and coriander lingers in the air. It almost smells like Harry’s house after dinner.

Eggsy grits his teeth but keeps his back as straight as he can. It doesn’t seem to matter though, since there isn’t a staff member in sight. He had been picturing something out of a period drama with cooks and maids running back and forth. Instead, everything seems to be put away and all the surfaces already scrubbed down.

The security detail lingers behind him in the doorway, but Rodriguez ushers him forward with a gesturing hand. “This way, please, Mr. Unwin.”

They wind around gleaming preparation tables and enormous mixers before stopping short at another doorway. “Just one moment, please,” she says, and then disappears through the thick, wooden door.

Eggsy adjusts his jacket, his palms sweaty. He rubs them on his trousers and gnaws on his lip.

Within a minute, the door opens again, this time with the liaison propping it open, and Harry comes through from the lavish room beyond. He stops just inside the doorframe, his hands on his cufflinks. Rodriguez shuts the door behind Harry but doesn’t stray too far to the side.

Eggsy realises he doesn’t know what to do. He keeps his eyes on Harry’s shining oxfords. Had Rodriguez told him what to do on the ride over? Shit. He hadn’t been listening. Too worried about his scuffed trainers and too-tight polo. Is he supposed to bow? Fuck, Harry is the-

Eggsy gathers himself enough to hold his chin up high and look Harry in the face.

He looks the same, really. A suit and polished shoes. A tie. Healthy, with straight shoulders and standing tall. They could be standing in Harry’s kitchen, maybe a kitchen at some other giant house that Harry’s just taken him to for the first time, about to talk about what they want to whip up for supper.

“Eggsy,” Harry says and steps forward. He’s close enough that Eggsy’s staring at his suit jacket. It's navy, but not the same navy favorite that hangs in Harry’s closet. Eggsy would know; he’d looked at it this morning. This is a different suit, then. One made for royalty and not for Harry Hart.

Closer, Eggsy notices the circles under Harry’s eyes and the strain at the corners of his mouth. His face looks pale and thin with circles beginning to darken below his eyes. He looks tired. Exhausted, really. Eggsy can see it in the limp fall of his arms and the barest of tilt to his shoulders.

Eggsy licks his lips and curls his fingers up into fists by his sides. “What am I supposed to call you, then?”

Harry shifts on his feet, almost like he’s nervous too. “I would hope just ‘Harry’ is fine.”

Nodding like he knows what he’s doing, Eggsy says “Yeah, okay then.”

Harry’s eyes roam across Eggsy’s face for a moment before he speaks again. Eggsy is painfully aware of Security just behind him and Rodriguez watching from the side. “Eggsy… I acted poorly. When we last spoke, that is. And well- I’m afraid I’ve been unable to give you the distance you’d like. Not with something so terrible looming over us.”

“Harry,” Eggsy says, cutting him off. “I read your letter.”

Harry’s closes his eyes and the tension loosens in his shoulders. “I apologize for that. It was written in a late night fit.”

Eggsy feels the twitch of a smile forming on his face. Like one look at Harry’s face could wash away all those weeks of doubt and anger. Eggsy feels detached, like someone else is standing here in his trainers in the royal kitchens instead of Eggsy Unwin. “Not something an Englishman should be writing, innit?”

“Shit,” Harry whispers as a ripple of emotions turns his face from the stoic gentlemen suit of armor he favors into something rung out and discarded. “Shit, Eggsy. My darling.”

He staggers forward and drops to his knees on the cold, shining floor. Grasping at Eggsy’s jacket, Harry pulls him in closer; his fingers curled so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He buries his face into Eggsy’s stomach as his shoulders shake and stutter. “I’m sorry,” he croaks. His words are muffled in the fabric of Eggsy’s polo. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

Eggsy grasps at his head, digging his fingers in through Harry’s styled hair. “Fuck, Harry.” His face is wet, and he tries to wipe at it with his shoulder. He can’t barely even-

He pushes Harry back enough that he can slide down in front of him, his hands grasping down Harry’s face to cradle his jaw. His knees hit the floor in front of Harry with a painful jar up his spine, but he ignores the ache. Vaguely, he’s aware that they’ve been left alone in the kitchen; Rodriguez and the security team giving them a bit of privacy.

Their knees bump against each other on the cold floor as Eggsy squirms, trying to pull Harry as close as possible. He pulls at Harry’s suit, not caring at all if it wrinkles, and grabs at his tie and vest. Harry leans against him and buries his face in Eggsy’s shoulder. Eggsy can feel the hard jut of his nose pressing against his pulse, and the dampness of Harry’s cheeks through his shirt.

It's quiet in the kitchen with just their breaths and the heavy thrum of Eggsy heart.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Harry says in a painful moment of whispered distress. “I’m the bloody King of England, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Shit, Harry,” Eggsy hisses softly, cupping Harry’s lined jaw in the palms of his hands.

They aren’t talking about the letter anymore. And not about how Eggsy’s been ignoring him. Harry’s on about something too big for Eggsy. Not even big like question of entail and the family title. Bigger than that. More like saving the world; too big to fuck up. A responsibility that no one really wants even if they step up to accept in anyways.

Eggsy wants to tell Harry that he doesn’t need to know everything. That making mistakes is okay. The kind of thing a boyfriend might say.

It would be a lie, though, and Eggsy knows it. Merlin is always right, and he had said that Harry was something other than a man now. He wasn’t allowed to make mistakes. He had to be right.

Eggsy tugs Harry closer and holds on to his broad shoulders as Harry inhales with a gasp.

They’re life just a few weeks ago seems surreal. Like it never even existed.

Harry pulls back a bit so that their faces are close together. His eyes dip to trail down along the sight of Eggsy’s jaw and collarbone before pulling back up to his lips and nose. Harry’s shuttering exhale breaks the silence in the kitchen. “Eggsy. Darling,” Harry murmurs, his attention resting on Eggsy’s face, “I’ve missed you.”

“Harry, please, I-” Eggsy starts to say, but Harry cuts off his words by grabbing at his shoulders and crushing them together. His lips find Eggsy’s neck and his jaw with a rabid desperation before sliding up to the curve of his ear and cheeks. “Harry,” Eggsy says, breathless. “Fucking kiss me, yeah?”

 

****

 

Harry’s left the bed by the time Eggsy wakes the next morning. He can hear him puttering around in the next room. He imagines that he’s in front of the wardrobe picking out his suit for the day or that he’s grasping about for his teacup, unable to tear his eyes away from the morning paper. Perhaps he’s in his office, mumbling to himself about paperwork and deeds.

Eggsy rolls over under the thick duvet and peeks out through his crusty eyelids. It's dark in the room, the sun just beginning to peep in. Dim shadows play out over the ceiling as something blows in the wind outside the window. He squints at it, trying to figure out what it is in his groggy state. A flag maybe? The light and distant sound of traffic filters in through the window.

Another bump from the next room has him rolling out of bed and pulling on his rumpled jeans from the day before. Harry’s clothes are gone from the floor, and he doesn’t see a door that looks like a closet anywhere in the dark room so he struggles into his polo again.

He turns toward the thick wooden door that they came in through the night before and scrubs at his eyes. “Harry?” he says, quiet.

With no response, Eggsy pushes through into the hallway outside the bedroom where dim sconces light the way. He remembers it a bit from the night before, but didn’t recall it looking so rich. Deep carpets and ornate furniture line the wide corridor until he comes to the sitting room they’d stumbled through. He pokes his head out, cautious at the sound of soft voices.

Harry’s fully dressed already, done up from shoes to tie in something that looks like a costume out of a movie. His jacket is a dark fabric littered with medals and gold ornamentation, and framed at the seams with contrast piping. The high, solid collar looks uncomfortable, buttoned all the way up to Harry’s chin, but less so than the heavy belt he has around his waist loaded down with buckles and swords.

He’s seated on the edge of a delicate sofa, his back completely straight, while another suited man goes over a list with him. Harry seems to nod at the appropriate places, his eyes straying past the man and out through the windows.

Eggsy grasps the medal under his shirt and debates going back to the bedroom.

“Ah, Mr. Unwin,” the other man says, turning to stare directly over at Eggsy hovering in the doorway. “If you’ll please have a seat, Marquez will be escorting you to Hertfordtown Place in the Mews shortly.”

Harry stands then, his face transforming from a blank mask to a quiet smile. “Good morning, darling,” he says as if the other man weren’t even in the room. “I’m afraid I have an early morning today.” He steps over to Eggsy in a few commanding strides and leans down to kiss him.

Eggsy keeps his hands by his sides, not knowing where to put them on Harry’s replesdent uniform. His face feels numb, like he’d ducked it under a stream of icy tap water. “You going out, then?” he asks, a bit stupidly. He has to glance down at the carpet under his bare feet. It’s thick and luxurious, a high pile in a deep red.

“Yes, unfortunately.” Harry doesn’t say much more than that so Eggsy nods like he knows what's going on.

The other man resumes his list, and Harry returns to the sofa. He motions for Eggsy to follow, and he sits down next to Harry, trying to avoid jostling the various golden braids and tassels bumping against his shoulder. There’s a tea platter out on the sideboard but no one says anything about it. Is he supposed to help himself? He glances over at the man, hoping for a clue.

“...the car will take you directly to the front. Of course, the press will be in attendance in hoards. Keep your face neutral, Sir, and do not feel compelled to reciprocate their enthusiasm. This is a somber occasion, if I may remind you.”

Eggsy shifts in the seat, wishing he had put on his trainers.

A knock at the double doors on the other side of the room interrupts the man’s next sentence. His guide from the night before enters with no hesitation and closes the door behind her.

“Ah, Rodriguez,” the man says.

Eggsy stands up. “Let me get my shoes, yeah?” he says in a rush and retreats to the bedroom. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he leaves.

Scooping up his trainers and socks, he wrestles them onto his feet without untying them and shoves his arms through his jacket. “Shit,” he mumbles under his breath as he looks for his cap in the pile of blankets at the foot of the bed. He can’t find it anywhere. Where the fuck did it go?

Hot tears prick at his eyes, and he wipes them away. He bites his lip, his hands shaking. “Shit.”

More voices, louder this time, echo down the hall from the sitting room so Eggsy abandons his search. He balls his hands into fists and shoves them into his jacket pockets.

When he reenters the sitting room, Harry is standing, surrounded by a horde of suits. Rodriguez stands off to the side and gestures for Eggsy to come to her. “The car is waiting out back,” she says, her hands around her mobile. “We’ll be leaving as the motorcade does.”

She turns towards the main doors to the room, and Eggsy looks back at Harry. His face is back in that neutral mask, his hair perfectly styled and his back straight. He doesn’t look like the sort of man that would have a pint at the local anymore. Or someone who would take a chav out to have curry. Instead, he looks like that person Merlin was talking about; someone more than a man. Eggsy’s clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth grind together.

Harry doesn’t turn towards them as they leave, and the last Eggsy sees of him is from across the room, surrounded by aides.

The SUV waits for them back through a series of simple hallways that lead to the kitchen. The palace is bustling at this hour; people walking about like they’ve got a destination in mind. Eggsy keeps his head down, and most don’t spare him a glance.

He’s grateful for the simple black interior of the vehicle when the door slams shut, a distant burst of sound dulled by the numbness overtaking his body. The drive back to Harry’s passes by as if he's in nose deep water; every flash of headlights outside in the dim light momentarily rousing him from the cold creeping down his limbs and into his fingers and toes.

He closes his eyes as the SUV bounces over a rough patch of road, and his body sways from side to side.

Harry’s house looks the same as when he left. The blanket he managed to fold earlier still on the arm of the sofa and his trainers are lined up in a straIght row by the door. The agents escort him into the house, but it's too early for any of the neighbors to be out wondering what all the activity is about. They’d probably be able to guess anyways, what with old, posh Harry Hart having been-

Abruptly, Eggsy realizes he’s sitting on the cold, hard tiles of Harry’s foyer with his head in his hands and the door closed and locked behind him.

Alone.


	6. Now; Again, part III

Harry’s coronation takes place a few weeks after Eggsy sees him. People say that it was planned quickly to give everyone something to look forward to. Something to hope for in a dark period in time. Eggsy doesn’t want to watch it. He’d rather be locked in his childhood room and with his hands stuffed over his ears until the only thing he can hear is the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins. But his mum insists that he be there with her to celebrate the new King, and Eggsy can never turn her down.

Its a lot of what he expected: all ceremony and fancy outfits that look like they came out of storybook instead of something from real life. Strange rites of initiation intersperse the long speeches to keep it interesting. The choir is beautiful and his mum cries a bit when they sing.

Eggsy doesn’t feel anything though, until Harry finally speaks and recites his vows. He shivers at the sound of his voice; so unlike the Harry he’s woken up next to for weeks on end. It seems unreal, as if it isn't really happening. 

Thankfully, Dean from spends most of the night at The Black Prince and only come back to swear and break bottles in the early morning.

Eggsy spends most of the next week next to his mum on the dingy couch in her flat with his eyes on the telly. It's easier to look at Harry’s face when he’s done up in his usual immaculate suit as opposed to a pompous and haughty ceremonial costume that he’d last seen him in person wearing. 

The press speeds through reel after reel of Harry addressing the country. Harry meeting with state officials. Harry dancing with women at fancy parties. More than once, Roxanne Morton’s name appears alongside Harry’s like they’re fit to be paired together after evenings peppered with photographs of them leaning towards each other looking more beautiful than ever. It's like reading the celebrity rag except this time Eggsy knows the people behind the typeset.

Eggsy had never cared in the past about hearing about so-and-so’s addiction to blow or that other person’s affair with an actress. They were so removed from him and his; almost like they weren’t real people. But this time, with Harry’s polite smile on the every screen he sees from mobiles to Piccadilly, Eggsy finds he can’t look away.

He supposes that had always been Harry’s appeal. He’d pulled Eggsy in with his charm and wit, and now the whole country had been drawn in too. Harry wasn’t just for Eggsy anymore. He was someone every person in England wanted a tiny slice of.

That night, he’s still at his mum’s kitchen table with an auto magazine someone left at the laundrette, trying to get away from the news for only a moment before he’s pulled back in, with Daisy in her playpen next to him. Distantly, he hears the telly in the background over the sound of Dean’s yelling into his phone. _...and we’ve just received new pictures from an anonymous source of King Henry’s…_

“-you fucking piece of shit!”

Daisy screams, wailing and sobbing. Eggsy soothes her the best he can, petting at her head and making funny faces, but Dean’s tirade only pulls more wet hiccups from her.

“My days,” he croons. He abandons his magazine, hefting her out of the pen so she can bounce up and down on his knee. He mumbles sweet nothings into her ears, planning tiny kisses on her cheeks.

She sniffles, settling a bit even though her nose is a runny mess and she’s got spit up on her bib.

_...unprecedented,_  someone is saying from the telly. They sound angry, and Daisy whines again. _“his photograph is living proof that-_

“Turn that fucking shit off,” Dean bellows, storming out of the living room and looming over Eggsy on his rickety chair. “All you’ve been on about is news about that fucking wanker. All I ever hear about any more!” He swipes a hand across the table littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts, throwing them to the floor. Some shatter, scattering across the floor in a shower of pieces. “It’s a fucking mess in here with you lot lying about all day while I go out and take care of your arses.”

Spittle flies from Dean’s red face. Eggsy holds Daisy closer to his chest and turns his body so that she’s out of Dean’s sight. He turns back over his shoulder, sneering. “Don’t fucking talk around her like that,” he snaps.

Dean grabs his chin, jerking his head even farther around in a painful twist. He gets up in Eggsy face, his breath hot and bitter with booze. “Shut your fucking mouth, boy. You ain’t anything.” His beefy fingers tighten on Eggsy’s face digging into his cheeks with dirty fingernails. “You should be out on the street. I’m letting you stay out of the kindness of my heart.”

Eggsy rips his chin from Dean’s grip, standing up. The chair screeches as it falls backward with the force of his movement, and Daisy takes up screaming again. “What? I been paying for groceries for months while you been off at the pub putting your face in a bottle. You ain’t been taking care of anything.”

Michele steps out of the hall then. “Eggsy,” she gasps, her eyes hard. “You can’t talk to Dean like that.”

Eggsy has to turn away, the sting of hot tears gathering in his eyes. He looks down at Daisy's’ head, holding her tighter and swaying a bit to calm her. Her face is bright red, snot hanging from her nose as she gulps for air over her crying.

Dean’s whips him back around with a hand around the back of his neck. “Don’t you fucking ignore your mum, Muggsy,” he barks. “Apologize to her,”

Daisy screams, a high pitched and piercing sound. Eggsy grits his teeth. “Sorry, mum,” he chokes out around Dean’s fingers. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”

She face softens, and she holds her arms out for Daisy. “It's fine, luv. Why don’t I take her.”

When she disappears back down the hallway with a hiccuping Daisy, Dean twists his hand around to the front of Eggsy’s throat and slams him back against the counter. He pushes Eggsy back, bending his back far enough that the stretch burns.

Eggsy tries to push him back squeezing his wrist and futility tugging. His struggle is useless though, and Dean uses his other hand to grab a fist full of Eggsy’s hair and jerks his neck back until the back of his head slams against the counter. He leans in close, his face red and puckered with too many pints. He doesn’t say anything, just snarls with a mouth full of yellowed, crooked teeth before stepping back and leaving.

The door slams behind him, and Daisy starts up crying from the bedrooms again.

He keeps the news off after that.

 

****

 

Eggsy peers underneath the front panel on his hands and knees while Mrs. Potter babbles on behind him about how it all happened. He sighs and jiggles the stuck catch. “Like I said, ma’am, it's totally fine. Happens all the time. I'll get it fixed up in a second, yeah?”

“Oh bless your heart,” she croons again. “I said to myself as soon as I put in that last pair of Tommy’s trackie bottoms, I said ‘Linda, this load is just too big. Something might happen.’ But there I went anyways. Not even listening to my own advice. My mother would have-”

Eggsy tunes her out enough to hum at the approprIate places as he crams a screwdriver in to loosen the jammed flap. She’d said the exact same e thing to him two months ago when the washers she was using never let off the spin cycle. He couldn't decide if she had the worst luck or if she were somehow purposely damaging the machines.

The flap bends under the force of the tool and pops open with a snap. He hears the door jingle from the other side of the laundrette at the dry cleaning desk, and he yells that he’ll be right over. Reaching into the dryer exhaust, he manages to grasp at the blockage and pulls it free with a cloud of lint and dust bursting into the air..

“Oh!” Mrs. Potter exclaims when he turns around and stands up. He wipes an arm over his face to clear the sweat and lint from his eyes. “Why, isn't that Tommy’s shirt he bought in Cornwall three summers ago. He’s been looking everywhere for that.”

Eggsy grimaces, holding out the filthy shirt to her. She takes it and drops it on her load of clean and folded laundry. Dust and dirt fall on the folded shirts on the top of the stack. She beams at him from behind her oversized glasses.

“Well, guess he’ll be glad to have it back then, yeah?” he says trying to be polite.

Someone rings the tiny bell on at the dry cleaning counter a few more times.

“Fuck, mate,” Eggsy mumbles to himself while Ms. Potter busy with her basket. “I’m fucking coming.”

The new customer, of course, has a pile of ratty suits so pungent that Eggsy has to hold his breath as he bags them up on hangers and attaches the tiny tags to each one. The man watches him as he works, his eyes narrowed.

“I met you before?” he asks.

Eggsy keeps his eyes focused on making sure his writing is neat enough to be read after a chemical dousing. He doesn’t recognize the man, but tenses under the assumption that he’s one of Dean’s crew. The last thing he wants is some of that lot finding out exactly where he works and coming around to hassle him. “Nah, mate,” he says as casually as possible. “Don’t think so.”

The man squints even harder at him before his eyes widen and his mouth falls open, displaying a row of crooked teeth. “Fuck me,” he gasps, pointing at Eggsy’s chest. “You’re that bloke from the telly!”

“What are you on about, mate?” Eggsy says, grumbling while hanging up the last of his suits behind the counter and booting up the till. “I ain't been on the telly. You think they’re coming down here to interview chavs?”

“Nah, it is you, guv.” He says, leaning in close enough to peer at Eggsy's face. “How you ain't know your picture been all over the news yesterday. They got you out with the bloody king of England they do!”

Eggsy freezes, his hands balanced over the sticky keys. “What you say?” he asks in barely more than a whisper.

The man goes on regardless, his volume growing as he sways back and forth, excited and gripping the counter. “Somebody took a picture of you and him. Blimey, I'd never thought I'd see the day when I'd be meeting some royals, guv. You’re a right famous bloke, you is!”

“I ain’t got any idea what you’re on about,” Eggsy snaps. “You got something else you want cleaned or what?”

The man throws up his hands, taking a step backwards at Eggsy’ tone. “Nah, mate. Just them there.”

Anything Eggsy might have said is interrupted by the ancient rotary phone next to the register. It’s shrill jingle makes them both jump, and Eggsy reaches for it as quickly as possible, turning his back on the man to end their conversation.

“Yeah,” he says into the receiver mechanically, “Tennant Street Laundry.”

He hears the man mumble unhappily, but stumble back out through the door and onto the street.

“Gary,” says Ms. Suzzie in her raspy voice, “Luv. Yer mum called you yet? It's all over the news.”

Eggsy feels the blood drain from his face. He squeezes the plastic of the phone so hard that it squeaks under the pressure of his fist. He has to sit down suddenly, his legs numb, and he crashes to the floor behind the counter, pulling a stack of receipts down with him. The phone cord, stretched to much, pulls the base along the counter until it falls into his lap.

“Gary?” Ms. Suzzie says, “Gary?”

Eggsy croaks out an answer. “Yeah, ‘m here.”

She sighs, clicking her tongue. “What have you gotten yourself into, young man? I told you I didn’t want you bringing any funny business with you.”

Eggsy shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He cuddles the phone and his knees close to his chest. “I ain’t meant to, ma’am.” He says weakly. “It weren’t supposed to go like this.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Then it buzzes again. And again.

“Listen,” Ms. Suzzie says. “I want you to close up. You got anyone there?”

“Just Ms. Potter,” he mumbles. His breath catches in his chest. “Shit, they fucking know. How the fuck do they know?”

His phone buzzes again.

“Good,” Ms. Suzzie says. “She can let herself out, I’m sure.” There’s a rustling over the receiver. “Now, you listen to me, Gary: lock up. Leave the register. I’m on my way over. But I want you going right home. Don’t take the Tube. Your mum lives close, don’t she?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. “She do.”

“Good then.” She pauses, then with a more instant tone says, “Well, get going, luv.”

Eggsy stands abruptly and the phone clatters to the floor. He drops the receiver and swears. “Shit.” He glances over at the window facing the street. The man is still out there, talking to someone else and pointing at the laundrette. “Shit.”

His phone buzzes in quick succession with an incoming call.

He strides around the counter and pulls the blinds shut. The store instantly darkens. “Shit,” he says again as he flips the sign on the door to closed and locks the door from the inside.

Mrs. Potter pokes her head around the corner from the other room. “You alright, deary? I heard a crash.”

Eggsy drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Mrs. P. I’m fine. I just gotta… I’m locking up early, alright? Can I help you fold anything before I leave?”

“Oh no, deary. I’m fine. I’m just waiting for Tommy to get off work. He’s picking me up, you know.”

“Right,” Eggsy says, “Right. Well I’m off, yeah?” He squeezes past her and locks the door on that side as well, closing the blinds with one jerk of his arm. He looks at the tools spread out by the malfunctioning dryer. He hadn’t had a chance to put them away. The dryer itself is still pulled out from the line, its gears and and tubes exposed to the room.

Mrs. Potter watches him from across the room. “Are you alright, deary? You look ever so pale.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Mrs. P.,” he says softly, “You watch the news?”

“Sometimes,” she says. She adjusts her spectacles. “It's always awfully terrible these days. Very sad.”

Eggsy sighs, brushing past her again as he gathers his rucksack and jacket from behind the counter. His phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket. “Yeah,” he says more to the floor than her face, “I hope that-”

She looks puzzled, and Eggsy looks away. He suddenly can’t stand the thought that she might go home with her load of freshly folded things, turn on the telly during dinner and see his face strung up for the country to witness. Every mark on his record rolled out for examination. Would she still call him ‘deary’ if she knew that he’s been arrested for dealing in secondary? Or would she ask if he were feeling alright if she knew that he stole a car for a bit of a good time?

“Deary?” she inquires again, fiddling with her frilly blouse.

He pulls on his jacket, shoving those thoughts away, tears burning at his eyes. He grabs his cap from his rucksack and slams it low over his face. “Never mind, yeah? You know how to let yourself out. Bye, Mrs. Potter.” He leaves his set of keys for the building on the counter.

He keeps his head buried in his phone on his walk to his mum’s flat but doesn’t unlock the screen. If she already called him, then he’ll be home before she can really start worrying. Otherwise, he doesn’t want to see the messages from his friends asking what the fuck is going on.

Every time he glances up to check for cars or to wait at a crosswalk, he feels like there are eyes burning through the brim of his cap. He wonders how many of the people around him have seen his face on the news. He can’t even begin to think of the rest of it. Of what Harry is doing right now. What he’s feeling.

Eggsy can’t even understand what his own feelings are. They’re all jumbled up in his head, pushing and shoving for attention. He isn’t made for this kind of thing; all this hiding and lying. He should have got out of Harry’s life the moment he had the chance. Made a clean break of it. What the fuck was he thinking, responding to that letter and then going to see him?

He looks away as a little girl points at him a block away from the estates. He sees a flash of her mouth moving and her eyebrows going up in surprise.

In a rush, he turns up the steps to his mum’s flat, passing a few closed doors along the way. He can hear their televisions blasting away through the thin walls, and he strains his ears to catch any hint of what they’re watching. His phone starts buzzing again in his pocket, and he curls his first around it.

He fiddles with the key, turning the knob of the door and shuffling in just as he hears his mum’s pleading voice. “Eggsy just go, please. Because he’s gonna-”

Dean’s on him before he even steps all the way inside the tiny flat. He slams Eggsy back against the closed door, his hands around his neck, as his mum cries out behind him. “No! Please don’t hurt him!”

She tries to tug on Dean’s arms, curling her tiny hands around his wrist and pulling to get them off of Eggsy. Dean shrugs her off easily, his attention fully focused on spitting and snarling in Eggsy’s face.

“Fuck off!” Dean yells at his mum as he pushes her away and to the floor.

His mum stumbles, tripping and falling. “Don’t hurt him!”

Eggsy struggles against Dean’s hold, but his feet slip and slide on the kitchen floor. He can’t get a good grip on Dean’s arms as he slams his fists against Dean’s chest and biceps. “Get off me,” he gasps through Dean’s grip. “Get the fuck off me!” He starts to panic, his voice grasping, and his face turning red.

Daisy begins to scream from the bedroom, and Dean’s face instantly flares up in a ruddy sneer of anger. “Shut the fuck up!” He bellows both at his mum and the baby, spittle flying from his lips. He ignores his mum’s pleading form the floor and focuses back on Eggsy, his meaty fingers tightening their hold. “What the fuck have you been up to? Why the fuck is Rottie seeing you on the telly with the fucking king of England? ‘The fuck is going on?”

“I wasn’t with no one!” Eggsy gasps around the hand on his neck. “I don’t know what you’re on about!”

“Don’t fucking play dumb with me, boy,” Dean says with a snarl in his voice. “What are you fucking up to?”

Eggsy feels tears fill up in his eyes from lack of air. “I don’t know what you’re fucking on about!” he manages to gasp. He thinks of Harry briefly, with his well-cut suits and his polite smile, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

The sick feeling bubbling up in his gut has less to do with Dean’s rank breath and more to do with his last glimpse of Harry in all that ceremony. His back towards Eggsy as he’s ushered out of the palace. Shit. Was that the last he’d ever seen of him? Now that it all has gotten out? Will Harry want anything to do with him? Or will he sweep Eggsy under the rug like a bit of dirt below his notice?

“You listen to me,” Dean spits. “I want to know what the fuck is going on? Do you understand? I ain’t having the police sniff around here!” Dean snaps, shaking Eggsy and slamming his head and shoulders back into the door. “I swear, I’ll rip your head off!”

“Just tell us Eggsy,” His mum cries from the floor. There are tears streaming down her face as she sobs over Daisy’s wailing. “Just tell us!”

A loud series of knocks on the door behind Eggsy’s head startle them all. Dean pauses, his fingers loosening their grip in his surprise as his mum freezes, terror on her face.

Eggsy takes the opportunity to push him away. He stumbles back from the door, leaning heavily against the refrigerator and the counter to help hold him up. He gulps in air as his legs find steady ground.

Dean’s face melts into fury, and he goes for the door knob with little thought as to who might be on the other side.

“No!” his mum hisses as she struggles to come to her feet. “Dean, babe, we don’t know-”

Dean flings the door open, stepping up to the entrance with his fists raised. “What the fuck do you think-”

Outside, Rodriguez stands looking terribly out of place in a black suit and coiffed hair. She’s flanked by two security guards, looming over her as if she were as tall as a small child. Despite her misplaced appearance, she smiles at Dean with polite disinterest. “Is this the residence of Gary Unwin?” She looks between Dean and Michele.

Eggsy gasps at the sight of her through a gurgle of relief in the back of his abused throat. “Fuck,” he breathes out.

Rodriguez's attention turns to him, her eyes widening slightly, although her professional appearance remain unruffled. “Ah. Mr. Unwin. I was hoping to find you here.”

Dean seems to recover his wits and his face contorts back into a sneer. He points a finger at her accusingly at her and says, “This is family business, spic. Get the fuck out.”

She frowns, the slightest downturn of her lips, “I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Baker. However, I must insist on Mr. Unwin’s company.”

Eggsy doesn’t give Dean a moment to argue as he pushes past the bigger man and out to the security guards before Dean can think of something else to say.The guards part for him and then step forward to block his view of Dean.

He sucks in a gulp of air, trying to quell the shuddering of his frame as he exhales. His throat aches, and the back of his head feels like he’s fallen down a flight of steps. He hastily wipes away the moisture on his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Fuck,” he says to himself with a cut of sob. “Fuck.”

Rodriguez is talking again in a firm and steady voice, but he doesn't turn back to hear what she says. Deans starts up yelling again, and Daisy’s cries carry out into the outdoor walkway. A few flats down, a neighbor sticks their head out the door to see what all the noise is about.

“Have a lovely afternoon,” Rodriguez says; the first thing to pierce through Eggsy’s haze.

One of the guards places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a bit of a nudge. “This way, Mr. Unwin,” he says. “There’s a car waiting in front.”

Eggsy lets himself be guided down the cracking concrete steps and out onto the street. A few neighbors are out of their flats for a smoke, and Eggsy can feel their eyes on him as they walk by. But no one says anything. They simply pinch off their cigarettes on the railings and lean out of the way to let the group pass. Rodriguez brings up the rear and utters a polite, “Excuse us,” everytime they pass someone.

Dean’s shouts and his mum’s pleas follow them down, echoing through the estates. Eggsy hides his face.

Rodriquez leaves him to simmer in silence during the short ride. He doesn’t ask where they’re headed; he figures that he doesn't have much of a choice other than to demand that they pull over and let him out. At this point, he’s little more than a pawn.

The car pulls around the back of the Palace just like it did on his last visit. Apparently, despite the fact that his face is plaster across the internet, it isn’t enough to get him an invitation to cross the front door. He isn’t surprised; if he were in charge, he wouldn’t let some chav soil the carpets either.

Eggsy gently touches his cheek with the tips of his fingers. The skin there is sensitive, probably already turning green with the beginnings of a bruise from Dean’s fists. He flexes his jaw.

Rodriquez glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She looks like she wants to say something, probably offer him some sort of pill, but she presses her lips together and turns her attention forward at the dark look on Eggsy’s face.

When the car comes to a stop on the crunchy gravel, she gets out and circles the car to open his door just as she had the last time. He follows her without a word.

They enter through the kitchen again. This time, staff bustle around carrying giant pots bunches of fresh herbs. Some call out directions to each other, every one of them sweating in the heat of the room. Dishes line the gleaming tables, chefs bent over them adding garnishes to the plated food. A few of them look up as they pass but pay them little more than a glance before their back to their work.

The staff hallways are similar with people hustling about with vases of flowers, stacks of ornate china and buckets of cleaning supplies. Rodriguez weaves in and out of the activity, leading Eggsy down the maze of corridors. Even in the service areas, Eggsy feels terribly out of place in his linty t-shirt. He doesn’t feel any better when they pop out in a familiar looking hall, this one much more ornate that the last. They walk past a few towering mahogany doors before Rodriquez picks ones and gestures for Eggsy to go through.

He pauses in the doorway, his face on fire. “I’m sorry that he said that to you,” he says, ashamed that he’s apologizing for something Dean did and mortified that Dean said it in the first place. “Thanks for helping out.”

Rodriguez gives a polite but sincere smile. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Unwin, but I didn’t get this job by having a weak chin.” She opens the door a bit wider. “His Majesty will be with you shortly.”

Eggsy takes a seat on the same delicate settee that he’d sat in the morning after their first reunion. Rodriguez closes the door behind her as she departs, leaving him with only the ticking grandfather clock for company. He slumps forward, resting his elbows on his knees and buying his face in his hands.

Almost instantly, the door bangs open again and Harry strides in with a few aides hot on his heels. He’s done up in a light grey today, with a bright blue tie and brown leather shoes. Eggsy’s head jerks up at the sight of him, springing to his feet. “Harry!” he exclaims, surprised

Harry crosses the room, taking Eggsy in as he walks. “Eggsy,” he says, almost breathless, “Are you alright?”

Before Eggsy can answer, Harry pulls him into a rough embrace, clutching Eggsy to his chest and grasping the back of his neck with a bruising hold. Eggsy holds back just as tightly and turns his face to breath in the scent of Harry’s skin. He knows he’s probably ruining the press of Harry’s suit underneath his clenched fists but he doesn’t care.

Harry turns his head slightly, the soft puff of his breathe warm on Eggsy’s check. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

Nodding, Eggsy mumbles into Harry’s jacket. “‘M okay, yeah?”

Stepping back suddenly, Harry reaches up to cradle Eggsy’s face with his warm hands and ducks his chin down to press a sweet kiss on Eggsy’s lips. Eggsy sighs into the attention and tilts his head up to deepen their contact. His shoulder relax as he leans forward to feel more of Harry’s body against his.

They pull back, and Harry searches Eggsy’s face. His eyes land on the swelling bruise on his cheek. Eggsy cringes as Harry’s eyes harden. “Who did this to you?”

“It's fine, Haz,” Eggsy says, pulling away from Harry’s grasp. He wishes he had his snapback to pull over his face. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Harry frowns. “Your step-father, I presume.”

Eggsy looks away and keeps quiet. He ain’t ever grassed anyone up and he’s not going to start now. He can take care of his own problems.

Harry sighs. The aides seem to take this as their cue to leave, the last one closing the doors behind him. Harry slumps into the settee Eggsy just abandoned. He closes his eyes and leans back. There is exhaustion written deep into the lines of his face; around his mouth and on his forehead. His cheeks look pale. The clock ticks in the corner; the hallway outside the room silent.

Eggsy shuffles from foot to foot, keeping his eyes down.

“You should stay here,” Harry says after a few moments of contemplation. “That would be safer.”

“I ain’t going to be torn apart by a mob,” Eggsy snaps instantly. He immediately regrets his tone and grimaces. “I mean, I’ll be fine on my own.”

Harry opens his eyes. “No,” he says firmly. “It's been decided. We’ve already let this get too far. We should have announced our relationship form the very beginning. I shouldn’t have tried to cover things up until the right time.” He looks pained, his lips turning down in a self-deprecating frown. “I should have known there was never going to be a perfect time.”

He rubs his hand down his face. “I told you that I would fix all of this and I haven’t. I’m so sorry, Eggsy.”

Eggsy doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know if he thinks Harry is right or not. Maybe it would have been better if everyone had known from the start.

He steps closer to Harry and fiddles with with his jacket zipper. “It's too late for that, Haz.”

Harry looks up at him, his face losing its pinched expression. “You’re right, as always, Eggsy.”

Eggsy attempts a smile of his own. “Course I am,” he says, trying to tease.

A knock at the door interrupts them. Harry sits up straight, smoothing down his tie, and clears his throat. “Yes.” Eggsy slinks back away from the settee.

One of the aides from earlier pokes his head in. “Your Majesty, we’re ready.”

Harry nods. “Thank you, Giles. I’ll be out in a moment.”

The aide closes the door, leaving Harry and Eggsy in privacy again.

“A press conference,” Harry says before Eggsy can even ask. “To address the new trade agreement with Brazil. Hopefully, due to the economic focus, questions relating to the media circus this afternoon will be limited.” His face is neutral again. Distant. It makes Eggsy uncomfortable. Like he’s talking to someone else and not Harry Hart.

Eggsy nods like he understands. “Am I supposed to do anything?” He glances down at what he’s wearing, embarrassed. He’s still covered in a fine layer of lint from the dryer he was pulling apart. Mrs. Potter’s sweet smile seems like it was months ago.

Harry stands, tugging on his suit jacket and adjusting his cufflinks. “Not tonight, Eggsy. I’ve been advised to steer away any questions regarding our relationship for the time-being. The Crown will address the public on its own time.”

Gritting his teeth, Eggsy nods. “My mum,” he says. “I need to make she’s alright.”

“Of course, Eggsy. I’ll take care of it.”

A knock echoes through the room again, and Eggsy glances towards the door. He wishes they were back in Harry’s townhouse. Maybe then all this would feel less like a terrible dream and more like a fairytale. Afterall, he’s dating the King and yet he doesn’t feel anything like a prince.

“Rodriguez will take care of you. I’ll see you when I can this evening.”

Eggsy nods again. “Right.”

Harry steps forward into Eggsy space. “May I kiss you?” He asks quietly.

Eggsy keeps his eyes on Harry’s Windsor knot. “Course, Harry,” he says. His throat is tight, and hot tears prick at the back of his eyes.  He tilts his head up.

  


*****

 

Over the next few days Eggsy wades through this phone returning text messages. He doesn’t know what to say to most of them. Ryan and Jamal want to know if it's all a joke. Roxy is checking in to let him know she’s there for him if he needs anything. Ms. Suzzie eventually assures him that he can have off work as long as he needs.

He gets some anonymous threats. People he doesn’t know probably getting his number from Dean. He deletes them.

His mum texts him to find out if he’s okay. He tells her that he is. She seems excited; her only son knowing royalty. It's like nothing she’d even imagined. He doesn’t want to let her down by telling her that it isn’t all she thinks it is.

He stays in Harry’s set of rooms, and sleeps in Harry’s enormous bed. Harry himself is up every morning before Eggsy wakes. Sometimes they catch each other in passing as Harry prepares to leave for the day and Eggsy is stumbling out into the sitting room. Harry greets him with a sweet kiss and a hopeful promise to have lunch together. That doesn’t usually work out, though.

Eggsy eats breakfast alone in the sitting room, finally taking advantage of the choices on the sideboard, before Rodriguez will come and explain his activities for the day. She accompanies him everywhere, and he hasn’t decided yet if she is there so isn’t alone or if they don’t trust him on his own.

They normally have lunch in the garden outside. A man in a footman’s attire delivers their meal as soon as they sit, and takes up a spot off to the side to assist them if need be. Eggsy’s face flushes red at this, flustered to be treated like something special. At least at a fancy restaurant with Harry, he could say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to the staff without looking like a tosser. Its pleasant enough, though, even if he only has Rodriquez for company.

In the evenings, Eggsy sits in the dressing room with Harry as the valet helps Harry dress. Most nights he's off to some state dinner or a meeting with Parliament officials. They only speak a little as Eggsy is too embarrassed to say anything personal with someone else there. Mostly, Harry talks about his plans for the evening and asks Eggsy about what he did during the day.

Before he leaves, Harry always bends down to give Eggsy a kiss goodbye before he’s whisked out the door by one of his aides. It leaves Eggsy feeling hollow. He misses the trips to the park and evenings in exotic restaurants.

He begins to wonder if he is allowed to leave. Can he just walk out through the main gate? Would he be stopped in the hallway or in the front entry? He’s never been on his own outside of Harry’s rooms. What would happen if he isn’t there in the morning when Rodrequiez comes to collect him? The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Sometimes Rodriquez has him practice from a long list of question and answers that may come up when he eventually makes his debut to the press. A few other staff sit in on these sessions offering suggestions and scribbling down notes whenever Eggsy speaks. He tries to brush it off, but he hates the way they watch him and take notice of his every mistake.

“When did you start seeing His Majesty?” Rodriguez asks.

Eggsy looks down at his papers and tries to answer neutrally; like meeting Harry wasn’t some big deal. “We met after I left the Engineers to help my mum with her new baby.” The team told him to add in his own personality when he could, so he continues off the script a bit. “Turns out that he was a friend of my dad’s-”

One of the press team interrupts. “Best not to mention your father there, Mr. Unwin. That will only draw attention to your age difference. We hope that we can address that issue  at another point in time. This press conference is designed to introduce you to the public in as positive a light as possible.”

Eggsy grits his teeth. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He started again. “Harry and I met after I left the Engineers-”

“Perhaps the term ‘left’ should be replaced with ‘came home,’” the man says, interrupting again. “That will remind people of your responsibility to your family instead of a hanging commitment.”

“Right,” Eggsy snaps. “My ‘hanging commitment.’”

The man looks mollified and clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Please continue, Mr. Unwin.”

Eggsy sits up straighter. “Harry and I met after I came home from the Engineers to help my mum with the new baby. We’ve been seeing each other for about a year now.” He glances around when he’s finished but no one comments on his answer.

Rodriguez moves onto the next one: “This picture was given to the press from an anonymous source. Were you planning on hiding your relationship from the general public?”

Wincing, Eggsy shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Christ, are people really gonna ask that kind of shit? Bit rude, innit?”

“We hope not. However, we are trying to prepare for any eventuality. We think, though, that the presence of His Majesty will temper the voracity of the questions. If not, the scripted answers will be sufficient,” another man says. “I do think that this question would be better answered by His Majesty.”

Without work or his mum’s schedule to keep in mind, the days start to run together. There’s no weekend to look forward to; just the endless parade of meetings and the chance he’ll have some time with Harry in the evening.

Sometimes he talks with his mum on the phone to make sure that she’s okay. She says she’s fine, and that a car is outside the building around the clock. Dean’s been keeping an eye on them, doesn’t like them watching him out there, she says. But he’s kept himself quiet or at the Black Prince.

He doesn’t know what to do to help her. He doesn’t even know what to do to help himself. He’s stuck here, in limbo, just waiting.

One morning, Harry wakes Eggsy with soft kisses on the back of his neck and a hand around his dick. It's a surprise, for sure, but Eggsy takes advantage of it with a satisfied moan. He rolls over, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and sucking on his bottom lip.

Harry groans, rolling their hips together as he grasps Eggsy body. “My dear Eggsy,” he whispers into Eggsy ear. “That’s right, my darling. That’s right.”

Still half asleep, Eggsy answers with a throaty gasp; his finger’s sliding over the muscles of Harry’s arms. He smells like sheets and soap, his hair rumbled out of its normally style look. “Harry,” he moans. “Harry, please.”

He comes almost as soon as Harry does. The sight of Harry with his pupils blown and his chest all red reminds him of how hard his own cock is. And when Harry buries his head in Eggsy’s neck and grabs at his hips to hold him still as he thrusts with uncontrolled desire, Eggsy feels the hot sweep of his orgasm rush over him just as Harry shoots all over their stomach.

Eggsy’s back arches, his toes flexing under the sheet, as Harry coaxes him through it with whispers in his ear and broad strokes of his hand down Eggsy’s back. When his nerves settle, he tucks himself under Harry’s chin to lay small kisses on his collar bone.

There’s a knock on the door before his jizz has even started to cool on stomach. Eggsy freezes, horrified for a moment that whoever is on the other side of the door might come in and see them together. Harry simply signs and pulls away. “Yes, thank you, Jacobs.”

“Breakfast in ten, Your Majesty,” says a muffled voice through the thick door before the faint retreat of footsteps.

Someone from the press comes to take a picture of him after breakfast that day. He’s given a new polo to wear and a team of people fuss over his hair and even smear a bit of makeup on his face. He’s told that they want him to look natural; they don’t want to create an image that goes against what the general public has already learned.

He’s told to smile for the camera. Not a large grin, but just enough to make him look like a pleasant sort of person. They tug on his polo and arrange his limbs to look natural. It all feels anything but natural, though, with the hot lights and the speculative appraisals.

When he sees the picture afterwards, he wonders if his own mum would even recognize him. He can’t see Eggsy in that face at all.

One night, Harry has a rare evening with no dinners to attend. Instead of putting on an even fancier suit, his valet helps him change into a pair of trousers and a simple white button down. Of course, he still has paperwork to do, but Eggsy doesn’t mind as much when they’re both up against each other on the sofa with the telly on. It's the first time they’ve spent more than a second in each other presence.

  
_He’s a sweet boy, him,_ Mrs. Potter says as she adjusts her spectacles on the screen. _He’s always helping me out- I’m a bit of lump around technology. He’s a dear, helping me with my laundry._

Ms. Suzzie’s face fills up the screen as the camera cuts to her, and the interviewer asks _What type of employee would you say Gary is?_

She glances nervously off screen at the mic held up in her face. _Well,_ she says, and then pauses. _He was always on time._ She licks her lips and then starts to gain speed. _He really liked fixing the equipment when it started breaking down. He wasn’t really good at organizing the receipts, though. But when Her Majesty died, God bless her soul, he cleaned the whole place from top to bottom. Didn’t pay him for it either. I think he likes to be busy._

The picture of Eggsy and Harry at Lady Morton’s garden party flashes on the screen. Harry is gazing down at Eggsy’s face with something bordering on soft affection. He’s smiling with just a hint of mirth on his lips at the face Eggsy is making. It's all scrunched up, like he’s thinking too hard about something, with his mouth open in a question.

Just as damning, however, is the hand Harry has wrapped around Eggsy’s hip. He doesn’t remember that touch; how comfortable it looks. How it looks like it belongs there. In the picture, he seems to lean into the touch, his body rotated towards Harry and his cheeks flushed from the sun. He looks properly gone over.

He looks like he’s in love.

The broadcast cuts back to the show’s logo and then to a circle of hosts, each with a stack of papers in front of them or a tablet, seemingly in the middle of a conversation. _I’m sure you’ve seen his record, Sarah. The whole bloody country’s been able to look at it. Robbery. Drug possession. Grand theft auto. Dishonorably discharged,_ a man is saying.

_Yes, that and a father who died serving this country in the Gulf War. Notes from his teachers about bruises. A one year old sister and a mother who’s been in and out of rehab since her husband was killed. I’ve seen it._

“Who do you think took it?” Eggsy asks, mostly to himself. He glances over at where Harry is busy at work.

Harry doesn’t look up. “I’m sure Roxanne has some ideas on that.”

Eggsy frowns, focusing back on the television.

_Why do you need to make everything a social justice campaign, Sarah,_ the man huffs. He taps on the tablet in front of him on the table. _Sometimes things just are what they are. And this boy– because that’s what he is, a boy– is simply unfit to be connected with the royal family. It's got nothing to do with all the horrible misfortune he’s suffered or even the enormous age gap between them. It's got to do with what he chose to do. And, more importantly, what he didn’t choose to._

Another woman at the table scoffs, _Please, Mark, I think we’ll all do our best to ignore your ability to be an utter prick._

Mark jolts, his hands flying up in anger. _“That was completely uncalled for-”_

The woman interrupts him. _We aren’t talking about a traditional royal romance. Yes, the King has the cultural and educational background that he should. But he wasn’t raised to be a monarch. Wasn’t raised in the public eye. He’s a man who’s gone through his life thinking he’d find someone to love and then settle down. Unlike,_ she says, eyeing the rest of the table, _our previous royal family. They’d all grown up in this life. They knew the social expectations placed on them. Are we, as a country living in the twenty-first century, going to deny a man happiness based on a set of rules he didn’t even know about?_

The older man, Eggsy recognizes him as the usual host, clears his throat. _“That’s all very beautiful, Junhee, but despite Mark’s inability to get to the point, what he’s trying to do is point out that this is more than a social matter. The role of the Prince comes with-”_

_And why aren’t we talking about his age?_ interrupts Junhee. _Surely it’s an important factor here. Despite how far society has evolved, it’s hard to believe that two people with almost thirty years between them could have much in common._

“Is this what it’d be like?” Eggsy asks. He can’t listen anymore. Bad enough that he has to hear all this; worse that he knows his mum and his mates are probably watching along with the whole country. He’s texted them all, said he’s fine, but he knows they’ll be worried. He rubs his socked foot against Harry’s thigh. “Us, sitting on the couch and watching the telly?”

Harry pauses in his writing. Despite the sounds from the news program, the room is quieter without the measured scratch of ink across the pages spread out on the writing table he’s pulled up close. He places his pen down and turns to Eggsy. The dim light of the various table lamps makes his skin glow in the opulent surroundings of the sitting room.

Eggsy keeps his gaze steady. “Like you’ll be home around five or so and we’ll have dinner. I guess we won’t be taking the car out for grocery runs anymore. Maybe we can still go up to the lakes or see a few shows sometimes?”

How the fuck could he fall for a bloke like Harry in the first place? He knew it was stupid. Harry is twice his age. Older than his own mum. What do they have in common? Harry said himself that he grew up in a different time. A different place. Full of nannies and garden parties and evening finery. How does that make a relationship with Eggsy’s nights of Rizlas and dirty nappies?

What does Eggsy have to offer someone like Harry? Just a young body? A willing admirer? Someone willing to go along with all his quirky personality traits from years of experiences? Is that who Eggsy is? Is that who he wants to be?

They sit, neither looking at the other, the truth of the situation brought to sharp clarity, until Eggsy says “You haven't come round to see my mum. Or Daisy.”

Harry purses his lips together. “You never offered an invitation.”

Eggsy sneers at the television and his fingers curl into fists on his thighs. “You needed a fucking invitation when we was sleeping together? Was I supposed to ask you ‘round for a cuppa when your dick was up in me? Take you down to the flat so you could sit on a ratty couch and listen to Dean bang on? Where I come from ain’t good enough for you?”

It’s not even true, most of what he’s saying, and he knows it. But he says it anyways. He’s got to say something to drown out the litany of reasons why the country’s going to think he ain’t good enough. Reasons why he isn’t good enough to wash Harry’s dishes might as well be the one who’s warming Harry’s bed every night.

Sighing, Harry places his pen down on his papers. “My dear, please.” The endearment usually sounds fond. Now, Eggsy just thinks it sounds condescending.

He ignores Harry’s placating intentions, his own words tumbling from his mouth without censure. Suddenly, Harry’s thigh against his makes his skin crawl. He shifts away, recoiling from the contact. He can’t look over at Harry’s face. “I never had my own key until you left. Like you was just waiting to kick me out if things got too far.”

The space between them on the sofa widens. Harry’s face wrinkles up in a decidedly hateful expression that Eggsy had never seen before. “Is that what you think of me? You were still living with your mother. Was I supposed to invite you in, support you like I was an old friend of the family?” Harry snaps. “I never wanted to be a mentor to you, Eggsy. I wanted to be your lover.”

Eggsy recoils, his fists curling until his knuckles turn white under the pressure. “I ain’t a fucking social case for you to fix! This ain’t My Fair Lady,” he spits.

Harry ignores him, his voice tight with anger. “And I’m not giving you handouts from a sense of pity.”” He hisses back.

In the background, the newscasters continue to outline Eggsy’s flaws and debate his character: all the scars of his past spread out for the whole country to see. He feels like his skin is burning, searing with years of mistakes and regrets brough out like a brand.

Harry doesn’t stop. “I wanted you beside me. I wanted you in my home. I worked around your schedule. Took you to every event I could. Introduced you to my connections. I tolerated your familial connections. I embraced every part of you: the criminal behavior. Your brute of a stepfather; your addict mother-”

Eggsy jumps to his feet, knocking over Harry’s tiny writing table and spilling paperwork across the lush carpet. He leans forward, getting right up in Harry’s face, his own face hot with shame and anger. “Don’t you fucking talk about my mum like that! My dad might have saved your life but your fuck-up costs his and my mum’s happiness!”

Harry rolls his shoulders back, straightening his body on the sofa, looking more and more like Henry the IX instead of Harry. “Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been to repay him,” he says in a steady voice, giving no emotion away. “Can’t you see that I’ve done everything in my power?”

Eggsy freezes, his breath caught in this throat along with another string of vitriol. He steps back, straightening up and staring down at Harry with wide eyes. He can’t stop the stutter of his next words; the way they waver on the edge of a sob. His heart aches in his chest where the medal lies against his skin. He grabs at it under the fabric of his polo like a lifeline. “Is that what this was? Just some sort of way to make yourself feel better? It weren’t about me at all. Just repaying some old debt.” He tries to keep his voice steady but his words tremble with the rush of emotions twisting in his chest.

Harry seems to realize what he says and he reels back, his face falling. He looks lost for a moment, the anger in his eyes blinking out. He grimaces; his skin losing the red tinge of fury. “No, of course not,” he is hasty to say. He stands as well, not seeming to care about the papers he steps on. He purses his lips together as if he’s in pain. “I apologize, Eggsy.” He reaches out tentatively, his fingers just brushing Eggsy’s elbows. “That isn’t true at all. I don’t know why I said that.”

Eggsy keeps his eyes on Harry’s polished oxfords, not daring to look up at his face. His sniffs, tugging at the medal so hard that the chain cuts into his neck.

“All those times,” Eggsy says, starting off slowly. His voice is barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t trust himself to talk any louder without giving away the tremor in his words. “You could have told me about all this and you didn’t. You kept me in the dark. Paraded me out like I was some sort of toy for you to show off.” He twists his accent to mimic Harry’s “‘Oh look how nice that Lord Hart is taking in that young man. Teaching him about the world.’”

Harry watches him, just out of reach, that blank look still on his face. The news fickers to a commercial before going back to a picture of Eggsy in secondary sitting outside on a bench for a smoke. He’s got a sneer on his face. He doesn’t remember any details about the day or who might have taken the picture. Another day of wasted potential. He feels sick thinking of all the days he wasted; all the days he’s been wasting.

“Before I called you, when I crashed Rottie’s car, Jamal told me that I should’ve run the fox over. It were vermin.” He runs his thumb over the braided detail of the medal. “I told him there were a lot of things I should’ve done. Looks like I even knew then. I were just too stupid to realize it.”

He looks away from the screen and back at Harry. “I can’t do this Harry. Not even for you,” He says, his voice more even than he feels. He lets go of the medal and tries to straighten his shoulders.  “She’s right you know, on the telly. We ain’t got anything in common. And I ain’t even talking about this fucking place or even your townhouse. You and I are too different.”

“Eggsy, please,” Harry says for the second time that night, but this time, it isn’t with scornful condescension. It sounds more like quiet desperation. He steps closer, rubbing his hands over Eggsy’s arms and up his shoulders.

“No, Harry,” Eggsy says, quiet. He gives himself a moment to look down at his socks before looking Harry in the face again. “I know you ain't some special case that knows everything. You’re just a man, same as me, and you don’t always know what’s best for you. But they know, everyone out there. They know that we ain’t good for each other.”

Harry’s face crumples, his lips turning down, and he slides to the floor on his knees, almost blindly reaching out to wrap his long fingers around Eggsy’s hands. “Darling,” he whispers. “Eggsy, darling. I’m sorry. Please.”

The light of the television outlines his face in a harsh blue. It makes him look old; highlights the ridges and valleys of his wrinkles. He looks how he did on that morning they found out his life was never going to be the same; the day Eggsy should have taken his chance to start again and run with it. Old. And worn down in life. To think that Harry Hart could be brought so low. It's all the proof Eggsy needs to believe that Harry’s just a regular bloke. Somebody that Eggsy could love and then let go when the time comes.

Eggsy squeezes his eyes shut, looking away. He feels hot tears on his cheeks. He can barely speak over the sound of his own blood in his ears. “Don’t call me that, Harry. Please. You said in your letter that you’d let me go.”

“I’m a weak man,” Harry says. He almost sounds desperate; the pace of his words losing their poetic cadence. He grips Eggsy’s hands so tightly that they hurt under the pressure. “These last few months have shown me that.”

Eggsy takes his time kneeling down in front of Harry so that they’re both on the carpet. Face to face, he feels more confident. He knows that he has to be the one making the hard decision for them both. Harry can’t do it. Not anymore.

“Of the two of us,” Eggsy says softly, “I’ve been the weak one. I’m the one who’s always running away. Using excuses.” He leans forward, resting his head on Harry’s forehead. “You were strong before. You can be strong again. But I’ve got to give you that chance. I’ve got to give me that chance. And we both know that we like taking the easy way out. You with trying to leave your family duty behind and me with thinking I can go through my life without doing something for myself. Not giving myself a chance to be someone. You get me?”

He pauses, taking a deep breath, coming to a decision right there on the floor. “I’m leaving in the morning, Harry. I don’t belong here. I gotta do something for myself first. I can’t keep fallin’ back on you. I’ve just been following you - pulled along like I ain’t got no will of my own. In your shadow. I can’t keep going like that.”

Harry looks almost angry for a brief moment in the way his eyes flash. “I want you to stay,” he says, but his tone lacks authority. “I don’t want you to leave me.” His voice cracks on his last, soft words and a bit of wetness gathers in his eyes.

“We don’t always get what we want,” Eggsy says patiently. “You know that better than anyone.”

Harry slumps back against the sofa, his legs sprawled every which way and his arms and hands limp by his sides on the carpet. He’s never looked so rumpled. The front of his suit is creased, the buttons gaping and his tie askew. His closes his eyes and lays his arm across his face, tipping his head back to rest on the sofa cushion. “I do,” he says quietly.

__

 

Eggsy sits back too and curls his legs in front of him, resting the weight up his upper body on his arms as he leans. He feels exhausted, rung out and dry. Not just from the last few moments, but from months of living with the fear of him and Harry coming to an end.

But it happened. They’ve ended and Eggsy has made it through.

The carpet is soft against his palms and the light from the nearby table lamps is oddly comforting in the grand room. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. He can hear Harry breathing quietly across from him. The telly seems far away. Muffled. They’re probably still banging on about him on but for the first time, he doesn’t care.

He runs his fingers over the medal laying across his chest. Normally, the action soothes him. He’s been wearing it for so long that even the thought of losing it was crippling to think about. Now, however, the action doesn’t bring about the same sense of peace.

Making up his mind, he pulls it out from under his shirt and then over his head. Coiling the chain up in his palm, he holds it out to Harry. “Here,” he says softly. “I used my favor. I called this number and you changed my life.”

Harry regards the medal with a tired expression before cupping his palm. Eggsy tips his hand and the medal and chain slither into Harry’s hand. Harry looks down at it, his face almost content looking.

When he tilts his face back up again, Harry gives him a small smile. Eggsy narrows his eyes. “What?” he asks. “You’re making a face.”

Harry’s smile gives way to a small laugh. “Do you remember our first pint together? What you said?”

Eggsy grins back, his heart fluttering in his chest as he remembers seeing Harry for the first time. “Yeah,” he says. “You insulted me, you berk.”

“I did.” He watches Eggsy with a steady and fond gaze. “I regretted it as soon as I said it. You were so angry. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.”

Eggsy drops his head back again to stare at the ceiling. “Fuck, Harry,” he says, laughing. “You coming out and saying something like that.”

Harry nudges Eggsy’s leg with his shoe. “I’ll never tire of saying it, Eggsy.” His tone is light compared to his words. “I’ll never stop loving your reaction. The way you flush. I might have given you the medal to call in a favor, but it was you that changed my life. Gifted me with something I didn’t know was missing.”

Looking back at Harry, Eggsy’s toes curl in his sock, and he offers the man a small smile, almost shy. “Yeah?” He asks.

“Yes,” Harry echoes. His smiles takes on a more melancholy look. “i have something for you. I had it made for when… well. Let me get it.”

Harry stands and leaves the room, leaving Eggsy to rub at his eyes and pull himself back up onto the couch. He hears a few doors opening and closing before Harry returns with a dark suitcase.

“It's not perfect yet, as this was all from sight. But I want you to take it with you.” He holds out the suitcase to Eggsy, and at Eggsy’s questioning look, he says “Its a suit Eggsy.”

Eggsy takes the case gently, rubbing his fingers over the buckles and embossed letters. It smells like leather; a deep musky scent that makes his toes curl in the thick carpet. He pulls the case to his chest. “Thank you, Harry,” he says, looking up at Harry’s face. He smiles. “For everything.”

 

****

 

He sleeps in a guest room that night. The sheets are cool and pressed, and the decor just as obnoxious and ornate as Harry’s suite. It's quiet, too. No one next to him to snuffle in their sleep or murmur during a dream. The room smells fresh, like they’ve had the windows open recently, but it's devoid of any personal touch to indicate that anyone else had ever slept there before.

Eggsy sleeps well, though. His thoughts are calm and his dreams quiet.

In the morning, Rodriguez escorts him back to the street outside his mum’s flat. She’s as professional as always, planning the logistics of moving Eggsy few belongings out from Harry’s townhouse. She says that Harry was very particular that everything be done to Eggsy’s specifications. Eggsy smiles to himself; he can imagine Harry’s exact words.

“Ta, bruv,” he tells her before climbing out of the car. “Thanks for everything.”

His mum answers the door with a face full of tears and Daisy hanging onto her leg. “Eggsy!” Daisy cries, happy whenever she sees him. His mum smiles, “We’ve missed you, luv.”

Eggsy looks at both their faces; pink cheeks with halos of golden hair. His lip trembles. “Shit, mum,” he says softly. “Its over.”

Her face falls, eyes going wet with sympathy. “C’mere, luv,” she says and open her arms.

He falls into her, his arms coming up to wrap around her thin shoulders. Burying his face in her neck, he squeezes his eyes shut and shudders with nostalgia through a whiff of her cheap body spray. She hugs him back with fierce attention, stroking the back of his head and running her fingers through his hair.  When was the last time he’d been held by his mum?. “I left,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “I left.”

She squeezes him tighter. “You did what you had to do, babe.”

Eggsy sighs into her shoulder. He knows she’s right. He knows that he was right.

Daisy wraps her own small body right around Eggsy’s legs, pushing her face into the fabric of his jeans. Eggsy looks down, smiling at her and brushing a hand across his eyes. “Hello, flower,” he says, scooping her up. She gigiles, thrusting her snotty face into Eggsy’s and planting a wet kiss on his cheek. “Eggsy!” she cries again.

“Yeah, Daiz, its me,” Eggsy says into her soft hair. “I’m home.”


	7. Epilogue

Eggsy’s training program ends after two year with a small ceremony mid-fall after eighteen months of classes and apprenticeships. Eggsy’s definitely the odd-one out as usual with him being almost ten years older than all of the rest of the students. While they’re surrounded by their adoring parents and cranky younger siblings, Eggsy contents himself with chatting with one of his shop teachers by the small table of appetizers after the certifications of completion are handed out. Everyone is crowded into one of the school’s larger classrooms; the table saws and drills all pushed off to the side. The is filled with sawdust and the lingering scent of cut wood. A few people are a little more smart looking with button downs and trousers, but Eggsy’s elected to keep with his usual polo and jeans.

“I heard you’ve lined up a position with Boeing,” Mr. Tate says with a hearty shake of Eggsy’s hand. His thick mustache jiggles with his excitement. “Congratulations, Gary. I’m very excited for you.”

Eggsy squeezes his hand back. “Ta, Mr. T. I’m pretty happy. Starting next week. Flying out to Chicago for a while before starting back here at Heathrow. Got a new flat ready to go when I get back, too.”

“Well that is just wonderful, Gary. Wonderful!” He reaches out to shake Eggsy’s hands again with a wide smile on his face.

Eggsy is about to excuse himself in order to leave for one his last shifts at the laundrette when the conversations around them rapidly fading. Mr Tate’s eyes land at some point over Eggsy’s shoulder, his cheeks reddening in a ruddy blush, as the last of a classmate’s laughter comes to an abrupt end until the room is absolutely silent.

“Eggsy,” says the familiar voice as Eggsy turns around. “Congratulations.”

“Harry,” Eggsy says, his breath leaving his body in a happy rush as he grins. “Ta, bruv. I’m glad you could make it. I know you’re busy, yeah?”

They reach out at the same time, reaching for the other’s hands and shaking. Harry’s smiling too, the small, private smile Eggsy has missed. The one that crinkles at the corners of his eyes and makes his face light up. It's the one Eggsy knows is saved just for him and not the one he gives to the press or to visiting dignitaries.

It's been awhile since they last spoke at any length. There’d been a few texts over the months. Light, almost meaningless things, that barely kept them connected. Harry had kept his promise after all. He’d let Eggsy go. At this point, they’re little more than acquaintances. But Harry’s smile says more than his formal messages ever could.

Eggsy’s heart feels warm in his chest.

“Nonsense,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t miss it.” He glances off to the side at a family who is staring at him with their mouths hanging open. He doesn’t look outwardly uncomfortable, but Eggsy can see his anxiety in the way he adjusts his cufflinks. Not like he has too much to be worried about; there are probably ten agents scattered about the place with eyes and ears peeled for any threats. More likely, Harry still doesn’t like being the center of attention.

He seems to make up his mind and asks, despite the audience, “Are your mother and sister here?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “Nah. Mum couldn’t take off work and Daisy’s in school today.” He doesn’t mention Dean; not that Eggsy’s seen him in the last year he’s been in the nick.

“Ah,” Harry says. He steps closer to Eggsy. A few murmurs from the onlookers start to build, balancing out the complete silence from before.

“I’m headed to the States soon,” Eggsy volunteers. “I’ll be back in about a month.”

“Yes,” Harry says, his face turing a bit red. “I am aware actually.”

Eggsy laughs. “Yeah, of course you are.”

A child, probably the sibling of one of the graduates, says something loud but unintelligible and is instantly shushed by their parent. The noise opens up the room instantly, with people turning to each other to talk loudly. Some of them point or pull out cell phones, grinning and laughing at their good luck of seeing Harry in person. Behind him, Mr. Tate backpedals away, his face fading from bright red to a pale green.

“It’s fine, Harry,” Eggsy says, “I’m just… It’s good to see you, yeah?”

Harry’s smile softens into something more personal. “It’s good to see you as well, Eggsy,” he says. “It's been a long time.”

Eggsy wants to reach out and touch Harry on the elbow like he used to. But he doesn’t. He waits.

There’ll probably be images of the two of them all over the news within the hour. This time, though, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have anything to hide. “My mum is having a party for me this weekend. She’s right excited about my new job. Went through my mobile to invite Roxy and some of my mates. Your number’s in there but I think she were too nervous to text you.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “I can see how that might be intimidating. We haven’t met.” He winces as soon as he says it, reminded of their last argument.

“Yeah, about that.” Eggsy says. He steps closer to Harry, breathing in the smell of his usual soap. It feels so natural; Like coming home even though they’re standing in a dusty shop classroom with more drills than people. “I’d like to introduce you to my family, if you can come. It were rude of me to wait this long.”

Harry looks fondly at him with a gentle smile on his face. “I would be honored, Eggsy. Truely.”

Eggsy grins. “Cheers,” he says.

They don’t say anything for a bit, content to soak up the sight of each other. Harry looks happy. Eggsy can see it in the relaxed slant of his shoulders and the healthy flush of his skin. Eggsy knows he’s wearing a silly smile on his face, but he’s too gone to feel embarrassed. The people scattered about the room fade into the background, muffled, as if it’s simply Harry and him amongst the equipment.

The moment breaks when a agent appears at Harry’s elbow and speaks urgently, but quietly, into his ear. Harry keeps his expression carefully neutral, and Eggsy can only imagine what caused the man to interrupt them. He knows that it must have been difficult for Harry to find time to meet him, so the news must be important enough to merit the disturbance.

When the man steps back and away, Harry turns his attention back to Eggsy. His face dips into a shadow of regret.

Eggsy speaks before Harry has to. “It’s fine, Harry.” He waves and hand through the air. Suddenly, the voices of his classmates and their families seem to come back into sharp focus. “I’ll text you, yeah?”

Harry nods, a bit solomon. “Please do.”

He reaches out and Eggsy grasps his hand again. This time, they linger longer. Harry’s palm is warm against Eggsy’s hand. Eggsy brushes his thumb across Harry’s skin, enjoying the brief moment of contact.

“See you,” he says.

“Until this weekend, then, Eggsy,” Harry says.

They let go, Eggsy’s hand falling down to hang at his side as Harry turns to leaves. He watches Harry walk away, trails of excited conversation following him, until Harry stops just at the doorway to the classroom. Sun filters in from a dirty window, highlighting the warm brown of his hair and the deep color of his suit.

He pauses, turning back to face Eggsy. “Eggsy,” he says. Conversations in the room hush instantly, every eye trained between the two of them. “I’ll be headed past your flat on my way to an appointment. Care for a lift?”

Eggsy grins, “Yes, Harry.”


End file.
